I suppose it was my fault really. I bought her the first teddy bear before we were married and then, because she liked it so much, I bought more. I remember we once took our young children to a ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’ in the park. The local library had organised it. Our children each had their own bear, that made three, and Janet took all of her bears in the back of our estate car. I think we outnumbered everyone else by at least twenty to one.
I had to call a halt eventually. We were drowning in bears. Then I had the bright idea of limiting my little arctophilist (it means lover of bears, honestly) to small pottery bears that a man in Devon produced. They had the advantage of being very bright and cheerful; each figure was doing something different, cook, reader, trumpeter; above all they were small. They would fit on a small display stand (eventually in a large glass fronted cabinet). This seemed to stem the tide for quite some time until Janet discovered collectables. These are proper stuffed bears, but they are a limited edition and so can become quite valuable. They also cost a great deal in the first place and they began to, take over the house again. It was when Janet was hunting for something to do at evening class that my salvation came. Janet noticed a class devoted to flower arranging. When my daughter married recently her mother in law to be did all the flowers herself. All the table decorations, bouquets, posies buttonholes and corsages beautifully created with artificial flowers. Janet had been very impressed, so she didn’t need much persuading to join the course and she took to it like a duck to water.
Each week we had our lounge beautified by one of her arrangements and, since she used real blooms and foliage they died and were replaced rather than accumulating. Problem solved. I could now relax in the knowledge that my wife had an activity which fulfilled a creative urge, kept her out of my thinning hair and did not threaten to swamp the house. Far from it, the house looked and smelled better than ever.
It couldn’t last of course, nothing ever does. Janet will go to extremes. The first I knew of trouble on the horizon was when I settled down with the evening paper and discovered that when I opened it I was able to observe my wife, reading quietly opposite, through a neat square hole in the centre of the page. I asked in all innocence.
‘What was the voucher for?’
‘What voucher?’ Don’t you just hate it when another question counters yours?
‘The one from the paper Dear.’
‘Not a voucher, competition.’ She replied, her eyes not leaving her book.
‘Crossword? Quiz?’ I attempted to elicit a coherent response.
‘No. Village Show, flower arranging, end of the month.’ Was all the reply I was given.
I thought little more about it apart from regretting being unable to read a rather interesting report on the Parish Council meeting. I was missing about ten centimetres of it. Then lunch was late on Thursday. Lunch is never late on Thursday. Janet goes walking with ladies of the village on Thursday afternoon, so lunch is never late. Yet it was. The table was littered with bits of greenery, discarded carnations and lumps of green rock, which I understand is called oasis. In a dark green wicker basket at the centre of the table was a veritable crag of the aforesaid oasis with half of the garden sticking out from it at odd angles. Bending over the table in mute concentration was my wife, florist’s wire in one hand, scissors in the other.
‘What’s for lunch?’ I enquired not hopeful of a clear reply.
‘Whatever you want. ‘She mumbled, a red rose clenched between her teeth.
‘You’ll have to get it yourself, I’m busy.’ Was what I thought she said.
‘Is that for the Village Show?’
‘Practice.’ Janet answered clearly since the rose now had its place in the arrangement
‘Are you going to be practicing much?’ I ventured nervously.
‘For about a fortnight. I want to win.
For that day and for several occasions after that a pie and a pint of ‘best’ were the ingredients that made up my lunch at our local hostelry. To my relief, and that of my steadily expanding waistband, the day of the show dawned. Janet seemed to have dawned even earlier because the kitchen table was already groaning under the weight of foliage bought yesterday or harvested in the morning from the dewy garden.
‘Do you need all of that?’ I asked, wondering how I would get it all into the boot of the car.
We had given up estates when the children no longer needed to cart their playtime world around the country.
‘I’ll need to choose the best bits. You have to do the display at the show, it’s in the rules.’ she said, grunting under the weight of about half a ton of that green lumpy stuff whose name I could no longer recall. After a brief struggle, I managed to close the boot lid on the Brazilian jungle and we drove the five miles to the next village. Our village doesn’t have a show so we took our produce and handicrafts and flower arranging to Moreton Magna where they do things properly.
Marquees and smaller tents dotted the village green and one of the local farmer’s fields and the dew still steamed off in the morning sun. In the largest marquee, at the back, beyond humungous marrows and monstrous onions, languid leeks and frothy cauliflowers were a group of empty tables that lay waiting for the flower arrangements. Hanging above the tables like a spider dangling from its thread a neatly printed sign read ‘Mavis Enderby Memorial Trophy. Best original flower arrangement.’
‘I wonder who Mavis Enderby was?’ Janet twittered as she began arranging vegetation on the table.
‘A village in Lincolnshire, I thought.’ I replied stacking more greenery on top of hers.
‘Don’t be silly Nick.’
I tried not to be silly as I trudged back and forth carrying things for Janet in her intrepid attempt to secure the Mavis Enderby Memorial Trophy. Perhaps poor Mavis had collapsed beneath a particularly heavy floral arrangement. More than likely it was under the responsibility of sharing her name with that of a Lincolnshire village. When I returned with the final load I found Janet in conversation with another contestant so I left them and wandered off to view the exhibits and wonder why people would go to such lengths to grow an onion so large that even a thin slice would dwarf any portion of bread and cheese.
When I returned Janet was adding the finishing touches by adding a label with her name on the back and the title of her creation ‘Pretty in Pink’ on the front.
‘What do you think Nick?’ Janet stammered. What was I supposed to say? My experience of such things was limited to buying a bunch of flowers at the supermarket, tearing off the paper, dragging off the elastic bands without taking my eye out, holding the bunch over a vase of water and letting go.
It’s rather good I think Dear.’ Was the best I could muster.
‘Rather good! It’s brilliant!’ said a voice close by my right ear. I turned to see the young lady my wife had been talking to earlier.
‘Third prize I’m afraid.’ She mumbled, apparently to herself.
‘You think it will win third prize?’ I asked brightly.
‘Not more than that?’ Janet murmured.
‘Not yours, mine,’ replied Sandra, ‘Yours is the best I’ve seen in ages, guaranteed second I would have thought.’
‘But not first?’ we asked in unison.
‘Oh no. Mrs Empson-Brown will take first prize. She always does.
‘Is she that good?’ Janet asked.
‘Yes, she’s good but it’s best not to attempt to beat her. ‘
‘Why?’ I asked in spite of myself.
‘Things happen to arrangements that are better than hers. I had a wonderful arrangement one year and just before the judges arrived three of the best blooms simply fell off.’
‘You mean she sabotaged them?’ Janet panted.
‘She had walked past my display seconds earlier. I didn’t see her do it but that’s the only explanation.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I snorted, ‘It’s only a little competition.’
‘What was it Alan Bennett said? ‘If you think squash is a competitive sport, try flower arranging.’ Sandra said and led us out to the tea tent.
Over a delightful cup of Earl Grey, Sandra explained that Mrs Empson-Brown had won the trophy for the last nine years. She had in fact presented the trophy in memory of her sister who had been a constant exhibitor and frequent winner.
‘She even brings the trophy with her on the day when everyone else has to return trophies a week before the show.’
‘Well I’m not going to let Mrs Empson-Whatnot get near my arrangement. ‘Janet cried indignantly and stomped off to the main marquee.
Sandra and I returned more slowly, and she told me about the judges.
‘The chief judge is Wilfred Stinson our local vicar and literary expert.’ Sandra said.
‘Knowledgeable, is he?’ I asked.
‘He thinks he is,’ Sandra replied, ‘though he once commended the works of the poet Coleridge Taylor to me, so I feel there are gaps to his knowledge of poetry and music if not in floral matters.’
When we arrived at the display tables it was to find Janet in some panic and her display in great disarray.
‘I found it like this.’ She cried.
‘E-B strikes again.’ Muttered Sandra, handing pieces of greenery to Janet, as she tried to repair the damage.
‘Too late!’ I said and pointed to three official looking people who were working their way along the row of floral displays. Stinson was in the lead; his tall gaunt figure bent stick insect-like as he peered down a long thin nose at one of the arrangements.
‘Excellent as usual Mrs Empson-Brown.’ He simpered and the two lady judges smiled and echoed his words in unison.
‘What shall I do?’ quailed Janet throwing down her kitchen scissors and snatching up the label.
‘It’s hardly ‘Pretty in Pink’ now. ‘
‘Leave it!’ Sandra hissed, replacing the scissors with her own proper florist’s pair.
‘Now what have we here? Not finished yet my dear?’ Mr Stinson frowned. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of time.’
‘It is finished!’ said Sandra before Janet could utter a word.
‘It’s a display in the contemporary style, new from London.’
‘Ah! Eh what is it called? I see no label.’ Mr Stinson said, in some confusion. Clearly, he was unaware of the new contemporary style from London. Janet was clearly floundering and before she could bring any new contemporary style title to mind Sandra butted in again.
‘It’s called, ‘A man from Porlock’ Mr Stinson. I’m sure you will get the reference.’
‘A man from Porlock? Oh yes how apt. Yes, I see it now and how apropos of the contemporary style. Excellent. Shall we continue ladies?’ Mr Stinson smiled at his puzzled companions and stalked off on his long thin legs like a stork with its young following in its wake.
‘Would someone like to explain?’ said Janet indignantly. ‘What was all that about and why did you call this wreckage ‘A Man from Portlock’?
‘Porlock,’ I corrected. ‘What an excellent notion Sandra. I really think he went for it.’
I had to call a halt eventually. We were drowning in bears. Then I had the bright idea of limiting my little arctophilist (it means lover of bears, honestly) to small pottery bears that a man in Devon produced. They had the advantage of being very bright and cheerful; each figure was doing something different, cook, reader, trumpeter; above all they were small. They would fit on a small display stand (eventually in a large glass fronted cabinet). This seemed to stem the tide for quite some time until Janet discovered collectables. These are proper stuffed bears, but they are a limited edition and so can become quite valuable. They also cost a great deal in the first place and they began to, take over the house again. It was when Janet was hunting for something to do at evening class that my salvation came. Janet noticed a class devoted to flower arranging. When my daughter married recently her mother in law to be did all the flowers herself. All the table decorations, bouquets, posies buttonholes and corsages beautifully created with artificial flowers. Janet had been very impressed, so she didn’t need much persuading to join the course and she took to it like a duck to water.
Each week we had our lounge beautified by one of her arrangements and, since she used real blooms and foliage they died and were replaced rather than accumulating. Problem solved. I could now relax in the knowledge that my wife had an activity which fulfilled a creative urge, kept her out of my thinning hair and did not threaten to swamp the house. Far from it, the house looked and smelled better than ever.
It couldn’t last of course, nothing ever does. Janet will go to extremes. The first I knew of trouble on the horizon was when I settled down with the evening paper and discovered that when I opened it I was able to observe my wife, reading quietly opposite, through a neat square hole in the centre of the page. I asked in all innocence.
‘What was the voucher for?’
‘What voucher?’ Don’t you just hate it when another question counters yours?
‘The one from the paper Dear.’
‘Not a voucher, competition.’ She replied, her eyes not leaving her book.
‘Crossword? Quiz?’ I attempted to elicit a coherent response.
‘No. Village Show, flower arranging, end of the month.’ Was all the reply I was given.
I thought little more about it apart from regretting being unable to read a rather interesting report on the Parish Council meeting. I was missing about ten centimetres of it. Then lunch was late on Thursday. Lunch is never late on Thursday. Janet goes walking with ladies of the village on Thursday afternoon, so lunch is never late. Yet it was. The table was littered with bits of greenery, discarded carnations and lumps of green rock, which I understand is called oasis. In a dark green wicker basket at the centre of the table was a veritable crag of the aforesaid oasis with half of the garden sticking out from it at odd angles. Bending over the table in mute concentration was my wife, florist’s wire in one hand, scissors in the other.
‘What’s for lunch?’ I enquired not hopeful of a clear reply.
‘Whatever you want. ‘She mumbled, a red rose clenched between her teeth.
‘You’ll have to get it yourself, I’m busy.’ Was what I thought she said.
‘Is that for the Village Show?’
‘Practice.’ Janet answered clearly since the rose now had its place in the arrangement
‘Are you going to be practicing much?’ I ventured nervously.
‘For about a fortnight. I want to win.
For that day and for several occasions after that a pie and a pint of ‘best’ were the ingredients that made up my lunch at our local hostelry. To my relief, and that of my steadily expanding waistband, the day of the show dawned. Janet seemed to have dawned even earlier because the kitchen table was already groaning under the weight of foliage bought yesterday or harvested in the morning from the dewy garden.
‘Do you need all of that?’ I asked, wondering how I would get it all into the boot of the car.
We had given up estates when the children no longer needed to cart their playtime world around the country.
‘I’ll need to choose the best bits. You have to do the display at the show, it’s in the rules.’ she said, grunting under the weight of about half a ton of that green lumpy stuff whose name I could no longer recall. After a brief struggle, I managed to close the boot lid on the Brazilian jungle and we drove the five miles to the next village. Our village doesn’t have a show so we took our produce and handicrafts and flower arranging to Moreton Magna where they do things properly.
Marquees and smaller tents dotted the village green and one of the local farmer’s fields and the dew still steamed off in the morning sun. In the largest marquee, at the back, beyond humungous marrows and monstrous onions, languid leeks and frothy cauliflowers were a group of empty tables that lay waiting for the flower arrangements. Hanging above the tables like a spider dangling from its thread a neatly printed sign read ‘Mavis Enderby Memorial Trophy. Best original flower arrangement.’
‘I wonder who Mavis Enderby was?’ Janet twittered as she began arranging vegetation on the table.
‘A village in Lincolnshire, I thought.’ I replied stacking more greenery on top of hers.
‘Don’t be silly Nick.’
I tried not to be silly as I trudged back and forth carrying things for Janet in her intrepid attempt to secure the Mavis Enderby Memorial Trophy. Perhaps poor Mavis had collapsed beneath a particularly heavy floral arrangement. More than likely it was under the responsibility of sharing her name with that of a Lincolnshire village. When I returned with the final load I found Janet in conversation with another contestant so I left them and wandered off to view the exhibits and wonder why people would go to such lengths to grow an onion so large that even a thin slice would dwarf any portion of bread and cheese.
When I returned Janet was adding the finishing touches by adding a label with her name on the back and the title of her creation ‘Pretty in Pink’ on the front.
‘What do you think Nick?’ Janet stammered. What was I supposed to say? My experience of such things was limited to buying a bunch of flowers at the supermarket, tearing off the paper, dragging off the elastic bands without taking my eye out, holding the bunch over a vase of water and letting go.
It’s rather good I think Dear.’ Was the best I could muster.
‘Rather good! It’s brilliant!’ said a voice close by my right ear. I turned to see the young lady my wife had been talking to earlier.
‘Third prize I’m afraid.’ She mumbled, apparently to herself.
‘You think it will win third prize?’ I asked brightly.
‘Not more than that?’ Janet murmured.
‘Not yours, mine,’ replied Sandra, ‘Yours is the best I’ve seen in ages, guaranteed second I would have thought.’
‘But not first?’ we asked in unison.
‘Oh no. Mrs Empson-Brown will take first prize. She always does.
‘Is she that good?’ Janet asked.
‘Yes, she’s good but it’s best not to attempt to beat her. ‘
‘Why?’ I asked in spite of myself.
‘Things happen to arrangements that are better than hers. I had a wonderful arrangement one year and just before the judges arrived three of the best blooms simply fell off.’
‘You mean she sabotaged them?’ Janet panted.
‘She had walked past my display seconds earlier. I didn’t see her do it but that’s the only explanation.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ I snorted, ‘It’s only a little competition.’
‘What was it Alan Bennett said? ‘If you think squash is a competitive sport, try flower arranging.’ Sandra said and led us out to the tea tent.
Over a delightful cup of Earl Grey, Sandra explained that Mrs Empson-Brown had won the trophy for the last nine years. She had in fact presented the trophy in memory of her sister who had been a constant exhibitor and frequent winner.
‘She even brings the trophy with her on the day when everyone else has to return trophies a week before the show.’
‘Well I’m not going to let Mrs Empson-Whatnot get near my arrangement. ‘Janet cried indignantly and stomped off to the main marquee.
Sandra and I returned more slowly, and she told me about the judges.
‘The chief judge is Wilfred Stinson our local vicar and literary expert.’ Sandra said.
‘Knowledgeable, is he?’ I asked.
‘He thinks he is,’ Sandra replied, ‘though he once commended the works of the poet Coleridge Taylor to me, so I feel there are gaps to his knowledge of poetry and music if not in floral matters.’
When we arrived at the display tables it was to find Janet in some panic and her display in great disarray.
‘I found it like this.’ She cried.
‘E-B strikes again.’ Muttered Sandra, handing pieces of greenery to Janet, as she tried to repair the damage.
‘Too late!’ I said and pointed to three official looking people who were working their way along the row of floral displays. Stinson was in the lead; his tall gaunt figure bent stick insect-like as he peered down a long thin nose at one of the arrangements.
‘Excellent as usual Mrs Empson-Brown.’ He simpered and the two lady judges smiled and echoed his words in unison.
‘What shall I do?’ quailed Janet throwing down her kitchen scissors and snatching up the label.
‘It’s hardly ‘Pretty in Pink’ now. ‘
‘Leave it!’ Sandra hissed, replacing the scissors with her own proper florist’s pair.
‘Now what have we here? Not finished yet my dear?’ Mr Stinson frowned. ‘I’m afraid you’re out of time.’
‘It is finished!’ said Sandra before Janet could utter a word.
‘It’s a display in the contemporary style, new from London.’
‘Ah! Eh what is it called? I see no label.’ Mr Stinson said, in some confusion. Clearly, he was unaware of the new contemporary style from London. Janet was clearly floundering and before she could bring any new contemporary style title to mind Sandra butted in again.
‘It’s called, ‘A man from Porlock’ Mr Stinson. I’m sure you will get the reference.’
‘A man from Porlock? Oh yes how apt. Yes, I see it now and how apropos of the contemporary style. Excellent. Shall we continue ladies?’ Mr Stinson smiled at his puzzled companions and stalked off on his long thin legs like a stork with its young following in its wake.
‘Would someone like to explain?’ said Janet indignantly. ‘What was all that about and why did you call this wreckage ‘A Man from Portlock’?
‘Porlock,’ I corrected. ‘What an excellent notion Sandra. I really think he went for it.’
As we sat at our celebration dinner in ‘The Dog and Drunkard’ the Mavis Enderby Memorial Trophy in place of honour at the centre of the table, Sandra explained to Janet why we were able to celebrate.
‘It’s very simple Janet. Mr Stinson thinks he is a literary genius and connoisseur of all that is good taste. He is, however, not as knowledgeable as he thinks. First, he confuses Samuel Coleridge Taylor the composer with Samuel Taylor Coleridge the poet. Second, he didn’t notice my misquotation of the note at the beginning of Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ which should read ‘At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock’. Third, he has no knowledge at all of the new contemporary style from London.’
‘Nor do I.’ said Janet looking mystified.
‘Not surprising since there’s no such thing, right Sandra?’
‘Right Nick. But Mr Stinson, God bless him, didn’t know that and would never dare reveal to the other judges that he was not in full command of all the information needed to be the chief judge.’
‘But why the title?’ asked Janet, who has never been one to delve deeper into poetry than Pam Ayres.
‘Your display was unfinished because your repairs were interrupted by the arrival of the judges. In the same way Coleridge was interrupted by a person on business from Porlock and never completed his poem. Mr Stinson couldn’t fail to be intrigued by the notion of a literary title to a flower arrangement.’
‘A toast!’ I cried raising my glass. To our new champion.’
‘No!’ cried Sandra, ‘To a man from Porlock’.
‘It’s very simple Janet. Mr Stinson thinks he is a literary genius and connoisseur of all that is good taste. He is, however, not as knowledgeable as he thinks. First, he confuses Samuel Coleridge Taylor the composer with Samuel Taylor Coleridge the poet. Second, he didn’t notice my misquotation of the note at the beginning of Coleridge’s ‘Kubla Khan’ which should read ‘At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock’. Third, he has no knowledge at all of the new contemporary style from London.’
‘Nor do I.’ said Janet looking mystified.
‘Not surprising since there’s no such thing, right Sandra?’
‘Right Nick. But Mr Stinson, God bless him, didn’t know that and would never dare reveal to the other judges that he was not in full command of all the information needed to be the chief judge.’
‘But why the title?’ asked Janet, who has never been one to delve deeper into poetry than Pam Ayres.
‘Your display was unfinished because your repairs were interrupted by the arrival of the judges. In the same way Coleridge was interrupted by a person on business from Porlock and never completed his poem. Mr Stinson couldn’t fail to be intrigued by the notion of a literary title to a flower arrangement.’
‘A toast!’ I cried raising my glass. To our new champion.’
‘No!’ cried Sandra, ‘To a man from Porlock’.