Chickens

Years ago, when I worked in an infant school, I was given the task of drawing a large chicken which was to be the centrepiece of a class project and would fill a classroom wall. I may have skills, but freestyle drawing is not one of them and I mumbled such to the teacher, who was very lovely and kind, but spoke to me like I was another of her 4 and 5 year old pupils and suggested that I try my best and might surprise myself. Hilarious, Miss! 

With good grace, and for the sake of the class who were going to make eggs, chicks, wheat and bread to be part of the wall covering, I accepted the challenge. It was difficult but my end result was acceptable in so far as it looked like a chicken, if only through the eyes of a child, and with the work of the class added to it, the scene looked like a fabulous reproduction of the story, The Little Red Hen. 

For anyone who doesn’t know, the hen lives on a farm with other animals. She looks upon these animals as friends. When she finds a grain of wheat and decides to grow it to eventually make bread, she asks for the help of her friends. All refuse. She plants the grain, looks after it, harvests the crop and every step of the progress she asks for help and doesn’t get any. The wheat is milled into flour and she makes bread. The others all want to eat some, but the little red hen refuses to share. She eats it herself with her own chicks. Through the story, the aim was for children learn about sharing tasks, being fair, being helpful and working together. The collage remained on that classroom wall all term. The Little Red Hen, my ‘wonderful’ artwork, for all to admire. Long gone.

Why are cowards or anyone refusing a dare, called ‘chicken’? There is a lot to learn about the origins and some of it is fascinating, but to give a brief outline, chickens, usually called ‘hens’ were considered to be weak, timid creatures and completely the opposite of the male ‘cocks’ which were strong and fearless. Cocky, perhaps. And from Wikipedia, ‘According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the earliest written instance of the word ‘chicken’ in the craven sense comes from William Shakespeare’s Cymbeline, circa 1616. “Forthwith they fly, Chickens,” he wrote, describing soldiers fleeing a battlefield.’

Back to the world of childhood for my choice of poems, written by Jack Prelutsky, former U.S. Children’s Poet Laureate.

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
There were chickens everywhere,
They were standing on my stomach
They were nestling in my hair,
They were pecking at my pillow
They were hopping on my head,
They were ruffling up their feathers
As they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
They were on the chandeliers,
They were roosting in the corners
They were clucking in my ears,
There were chickens, chickens, chickens
For as far I could see…
When I woke up today I noticed
There were eggs on top of me.

                                Jack Prelutsky


Ballad of a Boneless Chicken

I’m a basic boneless chicken,
Yes, I have no bones inside,
I’m without a trace of rib cage,
Yet I hold myself with pride,
Other hens appear offended
By my total lack of bones,
They discuss me impolitely
In derogatory tones.

I am absolutely boneless,
I am boneless through and through,
I have neither neck nor thighbones,
And my back is boneless, too,
And I haven’t got a wishbone,
Not a bone within my breast,
So I rarely care to travel
From the comfort of my nest.

I have feathers fine and fluffy,
I have lovely little wings,
But I lack the superstructure
To support these splendid things.
Since a chicken finds it tricky
To parade on boneless legs,
I stick closely to the hen house,
Laying little scrambled eggs.

                                Jack Prelutsky

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Tenson - Troubabours

I usually know roughly which direction I’m going in when I write my blog. This is an exception. I’ve really had to dig deep and I’ve spent lots of time getting carried away with Dante and his contemporaries, and had to drag myself back to the theme of ‘tenson’. After a couple of false starts, an almost abandonment and a rewrite, this is where the challenge, and it became very challenging took me. Forgive me if I’ve fallen off topic too much.

From Encylopaedia Britannica:

“tenson. (Old Provencal: ‘dispute’ or ‘quarrel’) also called tenso or tenzon, a lyric poem of dispute or personal abuse composed by Provencal troubadours in which two opponents speak alternate stanzas, lines, or groups of lines usually identical in structure. In some cases these debates were imaginary, and both sides of the issue were composed by the same person. The tenson was a specific form of debate, a kind of medieval poetic contest. The form later spread to Italy, where it became popular among the poets of the dolce stil nuovo, including Dante. Compare partimen.”

Searching into this sent me on a fascinating journey back to The Classics and to people I’d never heard of or forgotten about. I chose the following as an example, Cercamon and Guilhalmi from the 12^th century.

Cercamon

« Car vei finir a tot dia [L'amor], lo joy e·l deport, E no·m socor la clerzia, Non puesc mudar no·m cofort Co fay, can conois sa mort, Lo signes, que bray e cria E·n mou son sonet per fort, Que·l cove fenir sa via, E plus no·i a de conort. » – « Maïstre, si Dieus me valha, Ben dizetz so que cove; Mas ja d'aisso no vos calha Car li clerc no vos fan be; Car lo bos temps ve, so cre, Que auretz aital guazalha Que vos dara palafre O renda que mais vos valha, Car lo coms de Peitieus ve. » – « Guilhalmi, non pretz mealha So que·m dizes, per ma fe; Mais volria una calha Estreg tener en mon se No faria un polhe Qu'estes en autrui sarralha, C'atendes la lor merce: Car soven, so cug, badalha Qui s'aten a l'autrui be. » – « Maïstre, gran benanansa Podetz aver si softretz. » – « Guilhalmi, vostra vanansa Non crei, si com vos dizetz. » – « Maistre, car no·m crezetz? Gran be vos venra de Fransa Si atendre lo voletz. » – « Guilhalmi, tal esperansa Vos don Dieus com vos m'ufretz. » – « Maïstre, n'ajatz coratge D'efan ni d'ome leugier. » – « Guilhalmi, sobre bon guatge Vos creyria volontier. » – « Maïstre, man bon destrier An li ome de paratge Per sufertar al derrier. » – « Guilhalmi, fort e salvatge ............................... » – « Maïstre, josca la brosta Vos pareisa·l teit novel. » – « Guilhalmi, ben pauc vos costa Lo mieus ostals del castel. » – « Maïstre, conte novel Aurem nos a Pantacosta Que·us pagara ben e bel. » – « Guilhalmi, fols qui·eus escota: Vos pagatz d'autrui borcel. «

– Since I see, every day, love, joy and pleasure end, and the clergy doesn't help me, I don't know where to turn, aside from comforting myself as does, when it knows of its death, the swan, who laments and cries and forcefully emits sounds when it's time for its life to end and it doesn't have hope anymore. – Mentor, may god help me, you certainly say fitting things; still, let it not bother you that the clergy doesn't do you any good; for a favourable time comes, I believe, in which you'll have an associate such as will give you a steed or an income worth even more to you, for the count of Poitiers is coming. – Guilhalmi, I don't care a thread for what you say, by my troth; I'd rather have a quail held tightly in my breast than an entire aviary which someone else keeps locked while I wait for mercy: for often, I find, one yawns while waiting for someone else's goods. – Mentor, you can have a great good, if you are patient. – Guilhalmi, I don't believe the vain words you say. – Mentor, why don't you believe me? A great good will come to you from France, if you care to wait for it. – Guilhalmi, may god give you a hope such as the one you offer me. – Mentor, don't have the heart of a child or of a fickle man. – Guilhalmi, with a good pawn I would gladly believe you. – Mentor, prominent men have many a good steed for being patient to the end – Guilhalmi, strong and wild ............................... – Mentor, near the foliage may your new roof appear – Guilhalmi, hosting me in the castle costs you very little. – Mentor, at Lent we'll have a new count who will pay you nice and good. – Guilhalmi, he's fool who listens to you: you pay out of other people's purse.

 

Looking for something modern, I found this short quarrelsome poem by D/H. Lawrence. I like his wit. It made me laugh.

Intimates

Don’t you care for my love? She said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
Please approach the supreme authority direct!-
So I handed her the mirror.
And she would have broken it over my head,
But she caught sight of her own reflection
And that held her spellbound for two seconds
While I fled.

                          D.H.Lawrence (1885-1930)

Now then, shall I return to Dante et al, or is my brain scrambled enough for now? I think I’ve found another world that I’ve previously encountered very briefly.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Challenging Conventions

The recent screening of the BBC's big three-part betwixtmas drama A Very British Scandal , concerning the Duke and Duchess of Argyll, their turbulent marriage and well-publicised divorce, was what decided me on how I was going to approach this week's blog about  challenge  - as you will have noted from the title. I don't know how many of you watched it in real time or catch-up mode. It is worth viewing as a mid-century period piece about male hypocrisy and snobbishness if you haven't already done so, but it doesn't tell nearly the whole story, so please see my commentary further on.

I was already aware of the scandal attached to those events of 1963 because of a curiously tenuous connection between the Duchess and my own family. In brief, when my ex-mother-in-law first graduated from university in the early 1950s, she taught English Literature for a while at a sort of finishing school for young ladies in London. One of her pupils was Frances Sweeney, the daughter of the socialite who had recently become Margaret, Duchess of Argyll. I don't know how well the two women knew each other, but when my ex-mother-in-law became pregnant with her first child and set to leave her position, the Duchess gifted her a silk christening gown, allegedly saying "you've probably got lots of these but I'd like you to have it".  It's an item which her daughters, including my ex-wife, and then our daughters in turn, wore when they were christened. Consequently there was much talk in the family about the Duchess when news of her death was announced in 1993.

A Very British Scandal portrayed Margaret (played by Clare Foy) in a reasonably sympathetic light as a red-blooded woman being taken advantage of by a mercenary, blue-blooded husband who was only ever really after her money to restore his Scottish castle. He was also an adulterer, a cheat, had a drink problem and an amphetamine addiction, and was quite prepared to play dirty and shame the Duchess in order to divorce her when the money ran out - and yet the establishment sided with him.

the Duchess of Argyll

In real life, Margaret, daughter of Scottish millionaire industrialist George Whigham, was a sultry beauty from an early age. At fifteen she became pregnant by David Niven after a holiday romance and had a hush-hush abortion at a London clinic. At eighteen she was presented at Court in the 1930 debutante season and was soon popular in socialite circles, numbering Prince Aly Khan, Max Aitken (later Lord Beaverbrook) and Prince George, Duke of Kent among the men with whom she had youthful affairs. At one point she was engaged to Charles Greville, Earl of Warwick, but broke it off in favour of marriage to an American businessman Charles Sweeney. Her wedding dress was designed by Norman Hartnell and was the talk of the society papers for weeks.

She was with Charles for fourteen years. The couple had two children, the afore-mentioned Frances and a son Brian, but that only after a string of eight miscarriages and a stillbirth. She nearly fell to her death when she opened a lift door and stepped directly into the lift shaft (for the lift was actually stopped at the floor above). She fell forty feet, was hospitalised and told she would never walk again, but she made a remarkable recovery. She eventually divorced Charles Sweeney on the grounds of his serial adultery, but remained friends. He lived in Mayfair for the rest of his life and died just a few months before Margaret, in 1993.

Four years after her divorce from Sweeney, Margaret agreed to become the third wife of Ian Campbell, the 11th Duke of Argyll. Her money, and a loan from her father (that the Duke defaulted on), were used to restore Inveraray Castle, home of the Argylls, to its former glory but Margaret soon became aware of the Duke's violent mood-swings, addictions, manipulative ways, frequent absences and infidelities. She felt lonely and taken advantage of, so resorted to spending most of her time at her London home, resuming the social life she had known before her marriage to the Duke, though holding out the hope that she could reform him and that they might be reconciled. It wasn't going to happen, largely because of his own insecurity and profligacy. He was soon determined to be rid of her by any means possible so he could take up with another rich and more compliant heiress.

What the recent dramatisation failed to put across were two key things. The first was that there was a precedent for what Ian Campbell was doing. His great uncle, Lord Colin Campbell, had divorced his wife Gertrude eighty years earlier in what was the longest and most sensational case to date on similarly unproven grounds, that Gertrude had become involved with the Prince of Wales (who was named as co-respondent). He counted on the inference of a woman being immoral as weight enough to condemn her. The second was that the speculation about whether Ian was really father of his second wife's children came not from Margaret in a spiteful attempt to unsettle him, but from Ian's own doubts about their paternity. Louise Clews was going to issue a writ against her ex-husband for his claims and so he persuaded Margaret to go along with a story that the speculation was hers. His own embarrassment over the matter, coupled with Margaret's refusal to advance more money to him determined him to get rid of his unsubmissive wife, just as his great uncle had done. Ian employed a locksmith to break into her house in her absence and steal what he hoped would be incriminating evidence against her. Love letters (pre-dating their marriage), her intimate though cryptic diaries, and some candid polaroid photographs were his haul. He tried blackmail first of all, suggesting that a discreet separation would be possible if she would pay him £250,000 to keep quiet. 

Margaret decided to challenge conventions. She sent him packing and said she'd see him in court, even proposing a counter-action at one point, to cite him for divorce either on the grounds of cruelty or of adultery with her own mother-in-law (of which she was convinced although she had no proof). She believed that the law would see the justice of her case.

the Polaroid 95 'instant' camera

In the end, the Duke's action was the one which went to court in Edinburgh in 1963. He claimed that Margaret had had eighty-eight lovers, that 'v' when it appeared in her diary was a cipher for having sex, that a photograph of her hugging a man on her doorstep at 3am and that certain blurry polaroids of his wife naked in the presence of another man were sufficient proof of her adultery. Extracts from the love letters were read out. The Duchess denied having an affair with the man hugging on her doorstep. She refused to say what 'v' signified. What she couldn't deny was the evidence in the polaroid pictures. It was unmistakably her, wearing her instantly recognisable triple string of pearls and nothing else, in her own bathroom, with a man who, although his head was out of frame, was not her husband.  She refused to say who it was.

The judge, a staunch Catholic and also a member of the clan Campbell, refused to believe that a Scottish Duke could ever be a liar and a cad. He'd seen enough to castigate the Duchess as a woman of immoderate and indecent sexual desires, "a completely promiscuous woman whose sexual appetite could only be satisfied with a number of men" and in a four-hour summing up granted the Duke his divorce on the grounds of Margaret's adultery with the man on the doorstep.

The trial and verdict were the last hurrah for Victorian double-standards and when the details of her alleged activities became public knowledge in a way they were never supposed to, Margaret was devastated to realise the aristocracy was closing its ranks against her in such hypocritical fashion.

The first irony is that the man on the doorstep who was cited as her co-adulterer was no more than a genuine friend, and a homosexual as well  - but that was illegal at the time, so although the revelation would have harpooned the Duke's adultery allegation, Margaret was not prepared to out her friend in that way. The second irony is that although the Duke was ordered to pay one eighth of the costs of the trial, the Duchess was ordered to pay the other seven eighths. The third irony is that within weeks of the divorce, the Duke was married again, for a fourth time, to a wealthy American heiress.

Much was made in 1963 of those polaroid pictures of the naked Duchess and the 'headless' man, most of it gratuitous speculation as to who the man might be. Bizarrely. Lord Denning was brought in by a Tory government still reeling from the scandal of the Profumo affair to try and identify the 'headless man'.  The actor Douglas Fairbanks Jr. and Duncan Sandys, then Minister of Defence, were on the hot list. Sandys even offered to resign his cabinet position in light of the rumours. But Margaret refused to name names. In fact she never confirmed or revealed the names of any of the men she was supposed to have been involved with. Neither did she ever re-marry. She maintained discretion and retained her dignity to the end of her days.

To finish off, so to speak, a saucy little poem suggested by the photographs of intimate events in her bathroom which in themselves were, I imagine, both an exciting and a tender memory for the Duchess, but which in the hands of her spiteful husband became what is known nowadays as 'revenge porn'. 

The Duchess And Her Headless Man
(aka That Perfect Polaroid Moment)

Her bathroom

Her pale skin

String of pearls

On her knees

Eyes closed

In concentration.

Her lover held

The camera

Pointing south

Hand steady

Ready to shoot

The consummation.

He stood straight 

He stood tall

Torso tanned

You couldn't see

His head at all

It was in her mouth.

Happy New Year and thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Challenge - Defensive Driving

For almost two years now, everyday life has brought challenges. As Covid 19 and all variants took over and made us re-think how we do things and consider consequences, we have had to do our best to look after ourselves and each other, and abide by ever-changing rules, however bonkers they might be. I think we expected to be back to normal long before now, but here we are, plodding on after a second careful Christmas, with open windows on a cold day and a festive line in face masks.

A few short weeks ago, though it feels like months, we were enjoying a pre-Christmas extended break in Dumfries and Galloway. I love the organisation there. Face masks everywhere, track and trace details requested in every café and restaurant and no one makes a fuss – apart from one gentleman in Moffat, who was so rude to shop staff, he made me think I was in my home town for one awful moment. What is it with some people? Retail staff, in fact, all staff are challenged enough. During our stay, there was a problem which gave me a bigger challenge than I could have imagined. My husband developed a non-urgent medical issue, which, being sensible meant that he mustn’t drive. Over to me, gulp.

I’ve been driving for almost fifty years, but with no use – or parking space – for my own car, I was more than happy for my sister to use it as her own for as long as she needed it. My husband did the driving, I was always the passenger, as I liked to be. Driving isn’t my favourite thing but I had no choice. I had to educate myself with the finer points of his car and pop the car keys in my bag. I’m still not sure if I’d been promoted or punished for something. Anyway, onward and upward, I had to quickly overcome any worries and get on with it. There are worse things, I think. It is a lovely car. Bigger than my (4^th) Nissan Micra, which now belongs to my brother-in-law in Scotland. And it is automatic so it almost drives itself, which is good for me because there are so many hazards to look out for, especially now I am home and have to cope with traffic lights, roundabouts and things in the way.

The second week of our time in Scotland, I gained more confidence every day. Up and down the A75, the main road to all the places we wanted to go. I was unfazed by the narrow roads in small towns, or the country lanes on the Mull of Galloway. I refused to think about the journey home, the dreaded M6 and the ultimate challenge.

It was as bad as I expected, too busy, too fast and the sun in my eyes all the way home. I rose to the task and brought us home safely. No lunch stop at Gretna Gateway. No stopping at all until buying groceries at our Tesco. I was glad when that particular ordeal was over but another was about to begin. Driving locally is more of a nightmare than a challenge. I’m in this for the long term.

My Haiku,

Don't ask how we got
Under the rhododendron
A sad afternoon.

Reality check
The car keys are passed to me,
Am I promoted?

Confidence regained
In Kirkcudbright's easy streets
Before the drive home.

That fearful M6,
Cumbrian snowy landscape
Then soon we are home.

Now I've got to drive
Like I know where I'm going
In this messy town

With its silly roads
And its awkward roundabouts
And traffic filters

And pointless one-way,
I can rise to the challenge.
Defensive driving.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Sestina - The Secret

After dealing with the bindweed on the buddleia and nursing the contents of my over-full planters towards flowering, it has been lovely to sit out in the sunshine enjoying what passes for a garden. This sitting out time has been spent wisely, refreshing my memory on the discipline of the Sestina poetic form. Years have passed since my last (forced) encounter and you’d be correct to think that this is not my favourite. Anyway, rising to the challenge, I managed to get the rusty workings of my brain pointing in the right direction for long enough to compose something. I don’t know where the subject came from apart from the dark side of my imagination, iambic pentameter a bit hit and miss, but I hope it meets the criteria.

“A sestina is a poem written using a very specific, complex form. The form is French, and the poem includes six stanzas of six lines each, followed by a three line stanza at the end. Each stanza repeats the end words of the first stanza, not in the same order but in a strict formation.” See illustration.

Here is my sestina.

The Secret

After the passing of so many years
She still thought she would know him anywhere.
Decades ago, she wrote him a letter
But did not send it, instead tore it up
And decided it was best for their child
To remain unknown to him, a secret.

What started as a burdening secret
Became less important over the years.
Happy and healthy, this beautiful child
Was delightful company anywhere,
Cheerful and bright and always on the up,
Sometimes, she wished she had sent the letter.

All the details contained in that letter,
The reasons for having such a secret
And how important it was to keep up
For all the childhood and growing up years,
To guarantee acceptance anywhere,
And offer the best of all to this child.

A talented and inquisitive child,
Doing everything right to the letter.
A child going places, not anywhere.
Adult, needing answers to the secret
Of where a father might hide all these years,
Deserves to know the truth, so bring it up.

Then hours of searching and looking up.
So many questions you’re asking, dear child,
Travelling back over so many years,
This grown-up child composes a letter.
Confronted, she shares the truth, her secret,
Oh child, your father could be anywhere.

She always thought she’d know him, anywhere.
The mem’ry of him made her smile light up.
He would hate her for keeping this secret,
Denying him the chance to share their child.
Long ago, he had sent her a letter:
‘Return to Sender’, not lived here for years.

A secret lover, anywhere, now found.
After all the years, a chance to make up
Now he’s received a letter from his child.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Whether you embrace freedom or not, stay safe. Pam x

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Yellow - Daffodils

Yellow is the colour of sunshine, something there is so little of in these bleak, January days. Thinking of yellow and sunshine brings back treasured memories of my childhood and Nanna Hetty’s spotless, shiny kitchen in her bungalow at Heald Green. Perhaps the cupboards were yellow, or the Formica topped table, I’ll never remember, but the coffee pot with the pointed handle definitely was. I don’t think for one moment it was a Clarice Cliff, but whenever I see one it reminds me of Nanna’s sunny kitchen, her delicious fruit cake and the perfect scrambled eggs she made for me.

I hope that sunshine isn’t too far away. It’s almost impossible to imagine when it’s so cold, there’s scarce daylight from a dark grey sky and everlasting rain. Dreich. And, there is still the Covid pandemic hanging over us all.

Being surrounded by such doom and gloom at the moment, my recent choice of television viewing, BBC 4’s The Victorian Slum could be considered questionable. To give a brief outline, modern day families have taken up the challenge of living in the slum building exactly as the Victorian slum dwellers did, cramped in one room, two if it could be afforded and with the most basic of facilities. The lucky ones who found daily unskilled work could earn a meagre amount of money, every penny needed for rent and food. In the beginning, it is 1860, moving along a decade with each episode, exploring changes and differences and the hardship each family faces. Social history is very much my thing, so I’m glued to it and at the same time, thankful that I’m living now and not then. The only cheerful looking things were the artificial flowers that the children were making to sell. Within the slum is a doss house, somewhere to sleep, nothing more, for a penny or fourpence a night. The next step down is the workhouse.

One thing leads to another so with my head full of slum life in the 1860s I did some Google research on workhouses in the U.K. at that time. I was instantly transported to Bristol workhouse to be horrified at how people were treated so cruelly yet fascinated at what I was reading. The uniform for unmarried, pregnant women was a red tunic style dress. Prostitutes wore yellow. I smiled eager to share this snippet of information.

Don’t bother to tell me that’s how it was in all workhouses, not just Bristol.

Dad’s favourite colour was yellow. His mother was my Nanna Hetty, so maybe the colour yellow had significance. It was at Easter time when he suddenly passed away. Daffodils in full bloom filled each side of the front path that curved from the drive to the door. They became symbolic. Each year, I plant daffodils in remembrance of him, making sure there are some rich yellow ones. Some Tete-a-Tete are already in bud.

My poem,

Bristol Workhouse, 1860

I smoothed the cotton as I sat, and thought
Who wore this dress before me?
What became of her? Good fortune or death?
What happened to set her free?

Others were watching me, nudging, judging,
Nodding and whispering low.
My nervous hands gathered the threadbare skirt
As I glanced along the row.

Young women, not much older than children,
Some were dressed in washed-out red
With swollen bellies straining at the seams.
Those, the sinful un-wedded.

And me, I needed to feed my children
And pay the over-due rent.
There was no other way I could recoup
Money I shouldn’t have spent.

So I stood in the doorway, shoulders bare,
Brassing it out, being bold.
Closing my mind to demands of the men
While I shivered with the cold.

There’s no love lost in the Bristol Workhouse.
Pleading eyes, tear-stained faces
Cut no ice with those in authority
Looking down on the disgraced.

Downfall has brought me to sit here in a
Faded yellow dress of shame.
Of all the men who happily paid me,
No one even knew my name.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and keep well, Pam x

 

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