Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

A PARTY FOR #CephalopodWeek

The call came at 10.30.

Monica is desperate. Isolde’s triplets are having their birthday party, and can we come and boost the numbers. Several of their friends are down with the chicken pox and they don’t want the affair to look meagre.

It wasn’t until we got there that she spilled the beans about Mr Chuckle…also down with pox…she didn’t state chicken or other, but suffice to say there would be NO CLOWN.

Monica emptied her make up box (there must be several hundred pounds worth of Estee Lauder in there) and told the grand-poppets that nice Mrs Trehorlicks would love to do face painting. I certainly would not…that woman lies like a cheap Japanese watch.

Pippa and Poppy were delighted. All the little girls all wanted to be fairies (eyeliner and a butterfly on the temple), princesses (rouge and lipstick) or mermaids (turquoise eye shadow). Little Vespasian’s male friends settled for Tigers or Spiderman. But not the birthday boy.

‘This is rubbish,’ he pouted. ‘I wanted a clown.’ He stamped his foot. 

‘Perhaps you could be the clown, dear.’ I hunted for a good scarlet lippie for his nose. He stuck his lip out even further.‘…or a super hero? No one has been Batman yet.’ 

I was rewarded with a scowl. ‘Maybe an animal? Isambard looks fabulous as a Zebra.’ 

I reached for black and white. 

‘Cuttlefish.’ he said.

I gawped.

‘I want to be a cuttlefish. Sepia Officianalis.’

He’s very advanced for his age. Little squirt.

Well, I wasn’t sure what a cuttlefish looks like, apart from the things that you get in a budgie cage and I was lost for words.

Isolde came over. 

‘You’re doing a wonderful job, Auntie Cynthia.’ She kissed me on the cheek and turned to her son. ‘Are you going to be a nice cuttlefish darling for national cephalopod week? It’s his special interest at the moment. Cephalopods…last week he was an octopus.’

I was about to say I didn’t really know the difference, when Vespasian interrupted.

‘Not me…HIM!’

He pointed to Crichton dozing in a deckchair with his mouth open and a mighty gin and tonic in his hand.

‘I’m sure Uncle Crichton would love to join in, darling,’ cooed Isolde. ‘Let’s tell him.’

Uncle Crichton tried very hard to refuse, but Vespasian is a persuasive child. When he insists that he must have something, most people give in and my poor brave husband had no option but to agree and not spoil the day. I told him to trust me and just to sit with his eyes closed while we applied a small amount of make-up. I hadn’t bargained on my little friend helping.

The finished effect was breath taking. His face was a stark white with lips and huge eyes picked out in black. Vespasian declared himself satisfied and Crichton stood up, full of avuncular bonhomie, to offer biggie-back rides to the kiddies (This ghastly term now seems to have the royal seal of approval from the Duchess of Cambridge, so I feel obliged to use it), just as the mummies and daddies arrived to take their darlings home.

Children screamed, parents ran to protect them.  Crichton’s jaw dropped and he covered his ears. 

Vespasian just smiled and produced his new birthday iPhone.

Crichton Comments

FFS

I am back on Facebook.

Edvard Munch’s Scream in human form… 3,781 likes.

Crichton always says that Father’s Day is just an exploitation of the purchasing masses, inflicted on us by the Americans. He may be right, but I’m sure he’d be mightily disappointed if we forgot all about it. The twins had done just that, so I sent them down to the village whilst I put my feet up to recover from the awful party.

They returned triumphant with an Airfix model of Concord, and a card emblazoned with a goggly eyed chimpanzee in a fur hat holding a samovar, that said ‘Put Your Feet up…You’ve Urned it.’ 

Who thinks of these things?

Jerome and his father spent the afternoon smearing glue over themselves and the kitchen table while Arraminta made a carrot cake. She went off to phone Candida and forgot it was in the oven, so it caught on the top, but Crichton polished off several slices anyway.

Evensong with the curate. 

The kittens have failed me. She is still wearing those dreadful shoes. You would think now the weather has warmed up she might splash out on a pair of sandals.

Crichton Comments

The twins divvied up the usual card and gift. Nothing changes. A load of old nonsense really but good to be spoiled for once. Jerome and I polished off Concord without too much discord. Ho ho! I’ve always loved the smell of that glue.

Trenton looks very old today. Even the whistle in his nose has diminished to a quiet hiss and he declined a walk with the pack, so he and I just took a turn around the garden together after supper to talk about old times. 

Cynthia has relented and allowed him to sleep on the sofa, away from The Sausage. He needs some peace in his old age.