Flambuoyant

I know, I know. The (mis)spelling is deliberate. Who would have guessed? Other bases having been covered, you're in for one more perversely oblique approach to the weekly theme, pivoted on a pun and bonkers as toffee-apples.

The derivation of flamboyant is the French  flamboyer  meaning to flame, to flash, to shine. Yes it gets applied as an adjective to anyone or anything "showy" (animals, architecture, clothes, Eurovision, flowers, influencers, models and popular music divas), but add a 'u' in the appropriate place and you get flambuoyant. Voila! I give you the light buoy. It floats as it shines as it warns. (I'm so pleased I never took that job in advertising.)

a light buoy ready for the night's work

Light buoys primarily act as a navigational aid at night. They are usually anchored in shallow waters to warn of dangerous rocks , sunken wrecks, or to mark out channels to sail through in the dark. Originally the lights would literally have been flames (coal or wood in a floating brazier). These were superseded by candles, then battery-powered lamps and nowadays they are often solar-powered affairs.

They are in practice (despite my humorous wordplay) the very antithesis of flamboyant, being plain and serviceable structures, but absolutely vital to safe shipping in tricky waters.

What's more, I can't even claim any credit for the contraction of the words flamboyant and buoyancy that result in flambuoyant. It's been a member of the urban dictionary for quite some time as: "a description of a body's tendency to float as a result of vivid or over-the-top mannerisms and/or swim apparel". 

However, my meticulous research did lead me to the wonderful Pfeffer's Cuttlefish (sometimes actually called the Flamboyant Cuttlefish), which graces the warm waters off the northern coast of Australia.

the Eurovision of cuttlefish

It's a tiny creature (the size of a coin) and a poor swimmer, preferring to move ungainly across the seabed, "like a dog in a wheelchair". Note well that it's also poisonous if eaten (even with chips and gravy).

To round out this Saturday's ramblings on things flambuoyant, mention must be made of those cunning Byzantines who from the 6th century onwards used fireships to devastating effect against the Turkish enemy in their naval wars in the Aegean and eastern Mediterranean. Over a thousand years before the English Navy tried sending unmanned flaming ships filled with explosives in amongst the boats of the Spanish Armada in an attempt to set the enemy fleet on fire (a plan which failed to succeed, by the way), the Byzantine navy had perfected the art of using fire, that gift of the gods, at sea.

temporary like Prometheus

The specialized Byzantine fireships known as dromons were manned and thus manoeuvrable, able to get up close to the enemy and then unleash 'Greek Fire' on the target via a flamethrower. The recipe for 'Greek Fire' was a closely guarded state secret but was believed to be composed of a mixture of pine resin, naphtha, quicklime, calcium phosphide and sulphur. It was heated and pressurized in containers on board the dromons and then delivered flaming using a siphon and funnel onto the target, adhering to and burning everything it touched - much like modern napalm. Unsurprisingly, it was a fearful and much feared weapon delivery system in the armoury of the Byzantine navy. I'll leave it there.

To conclude, another work-in-progress from the imaginarium. Make of it what you will. I'll take it to the Blackpool & Fylde Stanza group for their considered input.

Greek Fire

Dona Ferentes in a different age 

might have found fame as a culinary sage:

How to roast a whole bull on the shore,

Mouth-watering meals for Moors,

Sarcen pie with village greens,

Ambrosia pudding for vestal teens

or 101 things you can cover in honey, but

there were no Saturday Celebrity TV Cooks

and no Sunday Supplement recipe books

(the printing-press was not invented yet),

so even if being a woman and of mixed blood

and a Spanish witch hadn't killed her career 

before it was born, she would have struggled

to make a name for herself, plus

her best recipe, the one that might have

earned a wage, was top-secret by Order 

of The Byzantine State, known only to a few 

on a strictly need-to-know basis, meaning she 

got little credit in her lifetime and died,

dark tar in her soul, a disregarded Danaan

dowager in a cypress grove grave, though

the fearful sticky sauce the Dona devised

for fireships to spray on their adversaries,

frittering Arabs and Turks on the middle sea

from Carthage to Canaan, stood satisfaction 

of sorts, vengeance in perpetuity for the ire

she nursed against those who razed homes,

slaughtered parents, stole childhoods, worse.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Flamboyant - Acceptance

 

When thinking about the word ‘flamboyant’, certain people come to mind, Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen, Oscar Wilde, Freddie Mercury, Mick Jagger and many more. They exude confidence, they can walk into a room full of people and immediately ‘own’ it without demand or arrogance. I think it is something they are born with rather than worked on. I haven’t seen the Rolling Stones live – it’s not too late, still doing it – but I’ve watched enough TV documentaries covering concerts to see that Mick Jagger takes command of every inch of a stage, every move a performance. Charisma. Maybe Flamboyant and Charismatic go hand in hand. I wouldn’t describe myself as either, but there was a time, a long time ago, when someone said I wore flamboyant clothes. They were not being friendly and the remark upset me.

At fifteen, I was uprooted from all that was mine, familiar and secure. Another pub in another town was to become home. School and friends left behind. I kicked up a fuss, but I wasn’t old enough to be listened to, apparently. Since the passing away of my mother and the swift remarriage that followed, the family dynamics were different and I’ve said before that I no longer fitted in. Throw into this toxic mix a good helping of normal, teenage angst and I’m sure you’ll still hear the screams.

Halfway through the fourth year, modern day Year 10, I started my new school – not following the same ‘O’ Level curriculum, so I had lots of catching up to do, or not. Forever the rebel, of course it was NOT. I soon discovered that I was going to find it difficult to adjust. A couple of the girls were friendly and helpful, happy to welcome the new girl and I was glad for that, but we were worlds apart in our interests. Before this major move, I’d enjoyed ice-skating on beat nights at least once a week. No ice rink here, but there was a disco dance at the town hall, on alternate Friday nights. I was invited to go.

I wore a long, summer skirt with a cheese-cloth blouse tied in a knot at the front and a pair of sandals that were getting worn out, but I wasn’t going to wear my school shoes. Instinct told me there would not be any secret cider drinking. Oh the joys I’d had to leave behind! I met my new friends, one greeting me with, “Do you always wear flamboyant clothes?” as she looked me up and down. Immediately I’d failed the ‘come out with us’ test and I didn’t dare ask what she meant, but my attire was a million miles away from their two-tone pencil skirts and checked shirts. Inside was worse. I quite like soul music these days. Years of being drip-fed Tamla Motown by various juke-boxes means that I know the words and I have favourites, but back then, it was like being forced to listen to something totally against my music religion. I liked the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac (before the girls came), Yes, and my beloved Moody Blues. Some boys in baggy jeans and boots were in a line, bouncing out a tricky dance to Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’. Mods, Skinheads, whatever they were was the opposite to me, but as weeks passed into a month and the girls asked me to join them again, I tried to make an effort. After all, when in Rome…

I didn’t go completely mad, not quite. I earned extra pocket money by waitressing in the pub restaurant a few nights a week. It was train fare and skating money for trips back home. I used some to buy a Ben Sherman shirt and some cheap, straight-leg jeans from the market. My flared, embroidered ones wouldn’t blend in for the town hall dance. With nail scissors, I fashioned myself a feather-cut. Not my best move, but not too shabby. Frowned upon at home, but that was just because it was me and I was used to conflict. On the plus side, I mastered the ‘Double Barrel’ skippy moves at the dance. I can probably still do it, but I’m sure you don’t need proof.

At the Whit Week half term, I was packed off to family in London. A wonderful treat. I travelled alone on the train, met by my aunt at Euston, happy to be spending time with her and my younger cousins in Roehampton. Nothing was mentioned about my appearance, be it flamboyant or otherwise. I was wearing my normal, comfortable clothes with beads and sandals. By this time, I’d had a few more snips at my hair, which was also an unattractive  yellowy blonde. The things girls do! Within days, my aunt took me to the hair salon where my colour was toned down and my home-made cutting restyled into a proper shape. Next, a new dress and sandals, and me, spoilt again by my aunt. If my dad had asked for her intervention, she was tactful enough not to tell me so. The best news came towards the end of my stay. We were moving back home.

(If ever I'm back on a stage doing open-mic, I'll try to command it like Jagger. Just joking.)

My Haiku poem,

Flamboyant

I can’t fit in here,
I’m a fish out of water
And they stare at me

While they are dancing
To Dave and Ansel Collins,
That fast, skippy thing.

I learnt to do it,
Not that I was one of them,
More like “when in Rome”

Amused by my clothes,
They thought I was flamboyant,
Cheese-cloth shirts and jeans.

To try to blend in
I bought a Ben Sherman shirt,
It was a mistake.

I snipped at my hair
Attempting a feather-cut.
What a disaster!

Half-term in London,
Back to floaty tops and beads
And leather sandals.

With thanks to Auntie,
A cotton-print maxi dress
And a hairdresser.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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