Mr Clarke had the unenviable task of being my ‘Form Tutor’ in my last two years at senior school. Mr Clarke, an undeniably smart man, only taught the top two years. Those that ostensibly really wanted to learn his subject. English Literature. We, being witty as well as bright called him ‘Forsooth Verily’ by dint of his superbly Shakespearian air made more acute by the fashions at the time … softest suede desert boots that made no sound, not even a whisper, as he glid across the high-polished wood floors, velvet jacket fitted to his slender form and what here in France they would call a ‘foulard’ of embroidered cheesecloth casually draped around his neck. His beard was deliberately bard there is no doubt. He had the delight of teaching me and the double wham bam no thank you mammy of being in charge of what would these days be called my ‘Pastoral Care’. It is fair and truthful to own up at this point in my too rapidly ageing life, that I was a handful. Twice a day, at it’s start and finish, the group of us that formed Tutor Group 6SB congregated in the library, for this was his domain. This was his exhalted place. This was his book-lined empire. We did our prep, we swatted for exams, sometimes he led a discussion, sometimes we rehearsed an assembly. I say ‘we’ but I might reasonably admit that I had a habit of being less than engaged with the process. One fine afternoon he asked me to please, for goodness sakes please, concentrate on the work in hand and added that I was ‘vacuous’. This provoked an inevitable barrage of ‘what does that mean, sirs’ from the tiresome object that was me. He suggested, quite reasonably that I might look it up in the dictionary. These vast volumes lined the bottom shelf of his cave and I remember sitting cross legged finding the correct tome. Quite askance I read the all too obvious definition. He of course implied that I was ‘as a vacuum’ …. absolutely bugger all going on in my head. Mr Clarke was a very smart man. So acutely embarrassed and humiliated was I that my reset button was pressed toute de suite. Later that summer I would open the envelope with my all-important A-Level exam results and be really proud of what I had achieved rather than quietly ashamed of wasting what ability I had. Thank you Mr Clarke. You sealed my future with your withering remark. You made me face the fact that given the gift of something of an intellect, it is honestly the height of fatuous rudeness not to at least try to use it wisely.
I give you this little story as my offering for the WordPress Weekly Photo Challenge ‘Dense’ of which you can find all the suitably solid entries here. My picture, taken on Sunday on la Crête de la Molière, seemed rather apt – the dense cloud trying it’s hardest to mask the snow covered Massif de Belledonne, the tree who has seen it all before, now old and weathered, battered and broken but stripped though it is, it still stands sentinel surveying it’s realm.
PS: I remember in my salvo of protests asking Mr Clarke if he was actually and really telling me I was dense. He replied that he most certainly was not. For density implies that there is a good deal of matter in the cranial caverty and he rather prefered to leave me in no doubt that there was nothing between my ears whatsoever. Stinging. Really it was stinging.
The quote is from Molière’s ‘Les Femmes Savantes’: ‘a learned fool is more foolish than an ignorant one.’ I would postulate that this is inarguable and that if we are to be learnèd we would do well to use our learning wisely throughout our days. Even those jolly days of miscreant behavior before we step blinking into the light and have to be vaguely growed-up.
In the words of Cyril Raymond to Celia Johnson at the end of ‘Brief Encounter’ ‘you’ve been a long, long way away’ – I won’t flatter myself with his next line ‘thank you for coming back to me’ but I have been a long way away and I’m very much afraid that I HAVE come back to you ….
It’s been a bit of a saga so here is a précis before I dive back into stories of house hunts and refurbishments and hikes (though one does figure here) and generally half-baked meanderings.
- June 17th The Two Brained one is diagnosed with Lyme Disease after breaking out in purple patches all over his normally unblemished body.
- June 19th He whisks me by circuitous route, lest I guess the ultimate destination, to France. Grenoble to be precise. You may remember I have a particular affection for Grenoble
- June 21st To the courthouse …. I’m not in the dock and neither is he but I do have another installment for my book ‘The Lying Cheating Lives of Others’ and there will be more of that in later blog posts – a road yet to be trodden but one that I think y’all might enjoy
- June 22nd – home to our little nest in Northern Cantal for our Wedding Anniversary. There is nothing nicer than to be in the village we were married in three years ago drinking a toast ‘à la notre’ in jolly nice French champagne
- June 23rd – up early and on the road to Marcolès to find out what progress on the house. There is progress but it would be wrong of me to spoil the surprise so I will leave you in suspenders til the next installment
- June 25th – back to Lyon to drop off car and take a flight. HB² is confident that a) I love surprises so will not look at my ticket b) I can’t actually see it without my glasses and c) I’m so excited that I will miss the only announcement for our flight. Therefore I board a plane not knowing where I am bound
- June 26th – I wake up in Edinburgh, a city I know quite well, where my grandmother was married in 1918 and where I hounded my elder brother when he was doing his PhD because I could and mainly because he had a ready supply of male friends for the 18 year old me to make cow-eyes at.
- June 27th – I pick up a call from my vet who is boarding The Bean. The words ‘there is nothing to worry about, but ….’ instantly make me worried. A lot worried. Because it turns out that The Small But Feisty one has also got Lyme. Be still my pounding heart. At least she is in the right place and they say she is responding well to treatment.
- June 29th – We decide to walk up Arthur’s Seat. This is an extinct volcano within the city. My aforementioned and extremely long-suffering brother lived in a very pretty district at it’s foot and we walked up often. Actually he used to run it. At his wedding his best man’s speech began ‘I first suspected that my flatmate might be mad when he asked the way to Arthur’s Seat for a run on a bitterly cold, wet and windy day…. I showed him and some time later I realised it wasn’t a case of might be mad, he clearly was mad as he set off down the lane in a storm with a rucksack full of boulders on his back’. He is still that same animal. In those days there were a few walkers some with dogs and that was about it. Today it teems with tourists making their way up, taking selfies and mostly wearing entirely unsuitable footwear (flip flops, fashion sandals, even the odd pair of heels) for what is a moderate hike up hill-paths rather than pavements. We took the road less travelled and benefited from stunning views unencumbered by the masses. The German girls hogging the peak did move over when I utilised my famed loud and I don’t care who knows it, voice and we duly stood for a moment or two before setting off down again. All was well and I was lost in thought (mostly quite bitchy thoughts about the unsuitable nature of other people’s footwear) until almost at the bottom, not on a remotely steep bit, I slipped on shail and heard an audible crack. The crack was nothing to my blood-curdling bellows and the air took on a blue hue as I cursed my way thorugh the early moments of what is actually a severe high ankle sprain coupled with 90% tear to the anterior calf muscle. I must thank the lovely man from Canada who stopped to help The Brains wrestle me to my feet, the equally lovely café who served delectable lime and coconut cake (I was in shock – I needed sugar) and the wonderful nurse in Minor Injuries at the Western General Hospital. Later as I limped into a taxi my husband asked how I felt about the last bit of his surprise – did I think I could manage it. Could I? I would walk through the fires of a spewing live volcano to do what he had in mind.
- June 30th – Two trains to Liverpool for lunch with youngest daughter and two more to Oxford to stay two nights with my mother who had one last surprise – my younger brother flown in from Bahrain to spend an evening with his big sister. In life, the real luxuries are the little things. The thoughtfulness of my husband, the opportunity to see some of my family. Secrets and lies can be quite beautiful – four of the most precious people in my world kept them and there is no sin in that.
- July 2nd – we collect the delighted but subdued tiny dog from her Boarding Vet. She has anti-biotics and is making some progress. Lyme Disease is a nasty nasty thing – sometimes, it isn’t easy being Bean.
So there you have it Two Lymes and a Lemon. Here are some nice pictures from the Scottish leg of my odyssey and afterwards I will treat you to a PS:
The Church where my Granny was married in 1918
The promised and entirely necessary PS: Yesterday, I visited my lovely Cambridge doctor for a formal verdict on my leg. He sympathised with Two Brains having to live with with a caged and beligerent tigress with cabin fever and asked how he is doing (he is a specialist in infectious diseases so had been asked for his opinion when The Brains presented with what appeared to be Lyme). He commented that it was remarkable that HB² had been running the morning of his diagnosis with Lyme. I explained that our daughters and others are convinced he is, in fact, one of The Men in Black. The doctor seemed spookily content to agree ….
And for those unfamiliar with the achingly heartrending last scene of ‘Brief Encounter’ – here it is: