My Absolute, Absolute, Final School Memoir: "Meet me at the Fives Court".

                                       

I was privileged to attend one of the oldest schools in the world (officially founded in 970 AD, but actually much older). It was an institution where one's 'Honour' was taken extremely seriously.

If a senior boy felt that he had been insulted, he had the option to either flog you, or invite you to 'The Fives Court'. The latter was employed very rarely.

Being invited to The Fives Court involved unwritten rules. Centuries of quivering boys had had to endure its unfair system of settling scores against much bigger, older, and stronger, boys.

It was accepted that the senior boy would ALWAYS win the combat; the junior having been taught his lesson was then obliged to shake hands and thank his conqueror (as was the case with flogging).

Cro had upset some senior 'twit' of a boy, and his 'friends' had goaded him into inviting me to The Fives Court. A time was set, the word was spread, and it looked likely to attract a good audience.

I can't remember the name of the 'twit', nor can I remember how I'd insulted him, but I can remember very clearly meeting him at the fives court complete with his second, who held a white towel over his arm in traditional style. It was all very theatrical, and frankly rather ridiculous. As expected, a good baying crowd had turned up to watch the fun.

The second waved a handkerchief, and shouted something like 'FIGHT '. Then the 'twit' started to dance around me on the tips of his toes, with his fists out in front (Ali style). He was shorter than me, well built, but not at all athletic. I stood and watched as he cavorted around the small enclosed courtyard waiting for his moment.

Well, I'm sure you know what's coming next. I lost my patience and threw an opening right jab to his nose, anticipating that this would encourage whatever bravado he possessed. In fact he fell to the floor, clutched at his bleeding nose, and shrieked with pain. The cheers from the hundred or so boys, both in and out of the fives court, soon drowned all else, and I was carried out shoulder high by the highly amused crowd. The Mummy's boy 'twit' was taken off to see Matron.

Unfortunately this wasn't the end of the matter, and I was later called to explain my 'ungentlemanly' behaviour by another senior boy (who'd been vaguely involved in the affair).

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I had broken with 1000 years of tradition, and that as such I would have to accept punishment.

I bent over, and received 6 of the most feeble whacks in the history of flogging.

It seemed as if everyone, and tradition, had been satisfied (except, I imagine, the 'twit' himself).

p.s. Just in case anyone doesn't know what 'Fives' is, it is an ancient game, rather like Squash, which is played with a gloved hand, rather than a racquet; and takes place in a somewhat smaller high-walled square-ish court.

p.p.s. In 1970 (the school's millenniary year), HM The Queen came to say kind words, and in memory of her visit the school decided to take-in GIRLS. So, 'meeting in the fives court' is now probably confined to history (unless, of course, it would be for alternative reasons). I had, of course, left by this time.

That Tree 2013.

                                       

It's not easy to photograph this year's tree, but if you enlarge it, it may give you some idea.

I've suspended it from a beam, so that the branches come down rather than go up.

There are still more things to go on; the fairy, some greenery, and possibly some birds.

Anyway, it looks very 'Christmassy'.

Especially with the lights on.

Dog Club.

When the boys invite some of their mates around for the afternoon, all hell lets loose.

From left to right; Bok's double Iggy Pup, Duke (aka Dook), Isis (the only female around), Monty, and Bok.

For a while, the garden and surrounding area becomes another Silverstone. Less noise perhaps, but much the same speeds are achieved.

There may only have been 5 of them, but it seemed more like twenty.  Duke and Isis belong to my friend José, Iggy Pup to a girl who lives nearby, and of course Monty and Bok to us.

It wasn't easy getting them all in the same picture, so please excuse its poor quality.

Extracts from the Christmas diary of a country Parson. The Rev Isiah Magnon 1830-1894.

                                         
The Hon, the Rev Isiah Magnon (1868).


20. 12. 1870. 'Dear Diary; why don't all these bloody people leave me alone, anyone would think it was bloody Christmas'.

21. 12. 1870. 'Mrs Magnon, and HER 12 children, now assure me that it IS Christmas, so I suppose I'd better inform my illiterate parishioners'.

22. 12. 1870. 'That's torn it; they all want me to put on some bloody theatrical extravaganza with a donkey, someone giving birth in a stable, and a bunch of swarthy Kings. I suggested we did Dick Whittington or Cinderella instead, but the buggers insisted'.

23. 12 1870. 'A good day; I ordered the Turkey, the Ham, the Goose, and a flagon of Port. I think we should have enough to bide us over the next couple of days..... as long as I get a moment to enjoy it'.

24. 12. 1870. 'The parishioners want me to stay up till bloody midnight. Don't they know that tomorrow is my busiest day of the year; I've received invitations for both lunch and dinner'.

25. 12. 1870. 'Too much Port last night, I'm having a lie-in. Can someone please stop those bloody children singing about Shepherds watching their bloody flocks; I'm trying to sleep'.

26. 12. 1870. 'I've been summoned up to Magnon Manor this morning. The present incumbent, my cousin Lord Tobias Magnon, is in a tiff. It seems that I swore at the bloody village children yesterday, after their bloody donkey left a trail of bloody garden manure all over the isle, one of the bloody Kings sicked-up cake all over the font, and that bloody 5 year old urchin from the Workhouse urinated behind the organ. Thank god we only have this bloody Christmas lark once a year. I hope Toby's got some decent Port in the house'.

27. 12. 1870. 'If is wasn't for that bit of rumpy-pumpy with Constance the scullery maid last night, it would have been another completely ruined Christmas'.

1. 1. 1871. 'I'm thinking of becoming a Bishop; less work, better Port'.

Lady Magnon's Tarte Tatin.

There are Apple pies and Apple pies, but nothing compares to a well made Tart Tatin.

Lady Magnon has spent about 40 years perfecting this wonderful Apple tart, and I think she's just about cracked it! The one above we ate last night.

When we first met she invited me to dinner (a rare occurrence in student days). She had prepared a wonderful Estofat de Boeuf  which she served with ribbon noodles, and a superb Tarte Tatin. The young Cro was mightily impressed (and the rest is history).

This upside down, buttery, tart is (when made correctly) the zenith of culinary mastership. If you've never had one.... do so at once.

The recipe for Raymond Blanc's much tidier version is available here. Lady M also adds a pinch of ground cinnamon (but who am I to suggest that Raymond Blanc does likewise).

    

School days: A Question of Identity.

This may be a bit long-winded, but please bear with me. I recently wrote about an incident at school which involved the drinking of Sherry. This separate incident took place just a few weeks before, and was..... well, you'll see!

                                         

I was sitting in my study, brushing-up for a forthcoming A level exam, when I was summoned to see the Headmaster.

He bellowed at me, told me that I'd always been a nasty disturbing influence (we didn't like each other), and ranted about a phone call that he'd just received. I listened patiently as his regular vermilion face turned puce, then he finally declared that I'd been sacked (expelled). All he added was that he would be phoning my father forthwith and that I'd better pack my things, ready to catch the London train in the morning.

I returned to my study where everyone was intrigued to learn about what he'd wanted.

"I've been sacked" I told them.

"What for?" they asked.

"No idea" I replied. "He didn't say".

"What are you going to do about it?" the three others asked in unison.

"Nothing; I'll just ignore the silly old buffer".

About half an hour later, our fifth study member 'G' arrived back, and slumped down at his desk. "Cro's been sacked" they all informed him excitedly.

G stood up, looked serious (actually, he always looked serious), and muttered something about having to see the headmaster. About half an hour later he returned to the study and said that the headmaster wanted to see me; yet AGAIN.

This time I really didn't know what to expect, and I remember nervously hesitating outside his door. Eventually I very reluctantly knocked; and entered.

"Sit down, Magnon" he said in a much calmer and friendlier tone than an hour before. "There seems to have been a misunderstanding; why did you not say something before?"

"I'm afraid I had no idea what you were talking about, Sir" I replied. "And, frankly, I still don't". Then, in front of me, he lifted his telephone and spoke to my father; explaining that it had all been some terrible mistake, before passing the phone over to me.

After a few father/son pleasantries, father told me to make him apologise; and the call was over.

"What did he say?" asked the Headmaster.

"He suggested that you may like to apologise to me" I said blankly (feeling extremely smug).

He did apologise, but he also accused me of having aggravated the situation by not having asked why I'd been sacked. After a short while I returned to my study where 'G' explained that he'd given MY NAME when he'd been caught returning his girlfriend to her school, after an illicit evening out. The girl's headmistress had phoned our headmaster, and the result had been predictable.

'G' had, of course now been sacked in my stead, and I offered him a sharp right jab to his chin as a souvenir of his unacceptable behaviour. No doubt I also celebrated with a glass of cheap British Sherry.

Sacked, then re-admitted, all in the space of less than two hours had been exhausting, and was well worth celebrating. When I returned home that Summer (for the final time), my father didn't mention a single word about the incident; it was if it had never happened. Maybe he'd not mentioned it to my mother.

You'll be pleased to hear that I shall NOT be posting any more school-boy tales; this final one is enough!

House Rules.

Rule No 1: ABSOLUTELY NO DOGS ON THE SOFAS.

Lady Magnon forgot to spread the razor wire over her sofa last night, so this is what greeted me when I came downstairs this morning.

Poor Bok doesn't look too comfortable; he'd have been far better off in his cozy, XXL, chew-proof, plastic, snooze-a-while, doggy bed. 

But try telling HIM that!