Love on the last train ...

The platform was crowded with late-night revellers anticipating the arrival of the last train home.
Remarkably, the information board indicated that St. Anley's homeward-bound train would be on time.
It also recommended that passengers intending to alight at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne etc. should travel in the front SEVEN coaches, owing to short platforms at these stations.

St. Anley noticed a woman.
She had shapely legs and a comely face.
He guessed that her male companion was her partner as he repeatedly caressed her buttocks.
The lady didn't seem to mind.
("He's on a promise tonight," thought St. Anley!)

The train pulled in and St. Anley boarded coach number SIX, as did several other people, including the shapely-legged lady and her man-friend.
St. Anley squeezed down the central aisle to occupy a seat which, by pure chance, afforded a view of the aforementioned legs.
Eye contact was made.
The lady smiled.
Indeed, she had a very pleasing countenance in a mature sort of way.
The lady remarked sympathetically, "You seem to be heavy-laden."
St. Anley was carrying his mandocello in its gig-bag, and another large, soft bag.
St. Anley just smiled back, wordlessly implying, "It's OK, I don't have far to go."

"Good evening," snapped a disembodied voice.
"This is your on-board supervisor. Welcome aboard this Southern train bound for Portsmouth Harbour, calling at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [etc.]"
"Please be advised that passengers intending to leave the train at Fishbourne, Bosham, Nutbourne [and others] can only alight from the front FOUR coaches, owing to short platforms ..."

"What coach is this?" people asked anxiously.
It was unanimously agreed that we were two coaches further back from where most of us needed to be.
In unison people rose from their seats to surge forwards.

Well, it was almost in unison ...
St. Anley was delayed by struggling with his mandocello, the shoulder-strap of which had become wound around his left ankle.
He struggled.
"Let me help you," said the smiling lady with shapely legs and pleasing countenance.
St. Anley was obliged to politely avert his gaze from a generous display of cleavage as she leaned over to assist his disentanglement.
"Thank you so much," he said in some embarrassment.
"That's alright," she replied, "I always like to demonstrate the milk of human kindness!"
(Did she know precisely what St. A. had been thinking a moment ago?)

The lady extracted the musical instrument in its bag and slung it over her shoulder. She grabbed the other bag from off St. Anley's lap and tossed it to her gentleman friend.
"Here, take this," she commanded.
"Now, follow me!"
St. Anley, impressed by her authority, had no choice.
"What is this?"
St. Anley explained that it was a mandocello, a musical instrument.
"Cello coming through!" she announced as she barged her way through the other passengers. 
St. Anley followed after, his heart full of joy.

Soon this procession arrived in coach FOUR, just as the train departed Fishbourne.
At the first vacant aisle-seat the lady turned.
"You sit there!" she said.
She deposited the instrument on the adjacent window-seat, and her gentleman friend handed over the other bag.
"Thank you, so very much," said St, Anley again.
The lady bent over once more, with another, full-frontal display of human kindness.
Then she kissed him fully on the lips.
This time, St. A. kept eyes open.
"Ah, you've made my day!" he exclaimed.

The smiling lady with shapely legs found seats for herself and her gentleman friend a little further up the carriage.
She continued to smile.
The gentleman was now stroking her inner thigh.

A few minutes later the train pulled in at St. Anley's home station, Nutbourne.
St. Anley rose, with no difficulty this time, hoisted his belongings on to his shoulders and stood waiting at the door.
Eye contact was resumed.
Smiles were shared.
The door opened.
The entire company waved and said, "Good night."
The lady's gentleman friend gave a thumbs-up sign.
The smiling lady with shapely legs, pleasing countenance and other comely bits blew a kiss.

Saint Anley turned to wave before adopting a kneeling posture on the platform.
The on-board supervisor was very concerned.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I am simply thanking the Almighty for the milk of human kindness!"

See the credits and go to sleep ...

What is the best bit about the BBC's series, Versailles?

Is it the magnificent architecture?

• Is it the opulent interior decoration?
• Is it the beautiful women who expose their cleavages at every opportunity.
• Perhaps you prefer those prettily dressed men?
• Perhaps it's the political intrigue?
• Is it those scenes of explicit sex?
• Maybe it's the violence?
• Is it the speculative dramatisation of real history?

None of the above.
The best bit has to be this ...

Autumn colours at Wisley ...

Saint Anley enjoys autumn ...

 To see the cool waters glide ...

This bonsai specimen is as old as St. Anley ...

It says so on the label ...

Leaves that were green tumble to the ground ...

Time to go ...

About a Brain Scan, or Stairway to Heaven ...

Mother-in-Law is an elderly lady who consults a psychiatrist.
"What are you here for?" asks the psychiatrist.
She looks blankly at her son-in-law.
"Because you can't remember anything," is St. Anley's response.

Psychiatrist reviews notes at some considerable length.
"Oh, yes," says he. "We'll arrange a brain scan."

Appointment for said investigation arrives several weeks later. St Anley dutifully accompanies M-in-Law to the hospital.

“What will they do to me?"
"Will it make me better?” she asks.

St. Anley hesitates momentarily, (wondering how best not to answer the second question,) before offering the following confabulation.

“Well, first they’ll ask you to lie down on a trolley and keep very still.”
“Then you will be conveyed through a very dark tunnel.”


“Ooh, that’s scary!” exclaims M-in-Law.

“Be not afraid!” commands St. Anley adopting a tone of ecclesiastical authority.
“At the end of the tunnel you will eventually see a very bright light.”

“What sort of light?” she asks.

“Oh, that will be the light of Jesus, welcoming you to His heavenly kingdom.”
(I wish!)

The radiographer calls her into his chamber.
St. Anley hums gently the melody, Stairway to Heaven.

Not many minutes later the patient is wheeled back into the waiting area.
“Oh, you’re here in heaven too!” she declares in some surprise.

"Did you see Jesus?" asks St. Anley.
"No, I had my eyes closed."
"That's why He sent you back!"
She concludes, "Well, that was a waste of time then; I don't feel any better, like you said I would."

"Oh, no I didn't!"

Disclaimer:

Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, described in this account is utterly intentional!

About being comfortably numb ...

Saint Anley has endured a bad couple of weeks.
I guess it's no worse than anyone else.
You know: interpersonal abuse, family disputes, impending bankruptcy etc. ... nothing of global nor historical significance.
Of course, all his tribulations are utterly trivial, albeit they cause him sleepless nights.

To digress ...
Saint Anley very rarely engages with contemporary popular music.
(Who is Lady Gaga, anyway?!)
However, on Sunday, while Saint Anley was trying to look at the inside of his eyelids, Mrs St.A insisted on listening to BBC Radio 2: Johnny Walker presenting Sounds of the Seventies.
Jane is a rock-chick who likes that sort of thing.
Saint Anley was forbidden to watch Songs of Praise.

Then he heard this ...

"Wow!" he said, "Where was I in 1979?"

"What did I miss?"

Now, one wonders, how can one achieve 'comfortable numbness' without the aid of illicit substances?

Saint Anley has some difficulty in adopting this position ...

Now, empty your mind and chant with me ... "ommmmm."

That doesn't look comfortable at all!

How many wives?

Now it is time to explain ...

Last week, before visiting the Mary Rose Museum, St. Anley attended a folk music club in company of somebody else's wife.
My friend Barry was there.
I introduced Laura.
Assumptions were made.

It was two days later that St. Anley, accompanied by two wives, visited the aforementioned museum where he recognised Barry in Tudor apparel.

"Hello, Barry," said St. A, "This is my wife, Jane."
Barry took a pace back. His thinking was evident ...
"That's not the wife who accompanied you on Tuesday."
Melanie, Jane's college friend, joined us.
"Oh, and here's Melanie."
Melanie being another man's wife.

Thus are sown the seeds of confusion.

It gets even more complicated ...
Yesterday I attended the same folk song club, initially unaccompanied.
I performed The Ballad of Mary Rose, after an explanatory preamble. It was rather well received, though Barry's response was ambivalent.

Then a lady arrived.
I recognised her as a near-neighbour and friend.
I embraced her warmly, (thinking, "Here's my lift home!")
The gathering gasped, "What ... another wife?!"
"I will explain later, dear," I whispered to my warmly-embraced friend.

It gets worse ...
Lucy, a lovely lady of my long-time acquaintance, asked, "Can we sing Pleasant and Delightful."
"Yes!" said I.
I stumbled slightly when it came to the line:
...and if ever I return again, I will make you my bride.

Oh dear, there's an unsavoury reputation in the making here!

The Ballad of Mary Rose ...

Last week St. Anley, in the company of two wives, visited the Mary Rose Museum in Portsmouth's Historic Dockyard.

He met a friend who was an official guide.

Barry was barely recognisable in his Tudor attire: cap, tunic, breeches, hosen and shoon.

Barry took us in hand and delivered an eloquent account of the Battle of the Solent, (1545.)

A large crowd gathered to listen.

Saint Anley was thereafter inspired to poetry ...

The Ballad of Mary Rose

As I walked through the dockyard to see Mary Rose,
I spied an old man wearing very strange clothes.
The old man was erudite ‘bout maritime things:

Of historical seamen and ships of the Kings

He adopted a most magisterial pose,

Went on to declaim in eloquent prose.

*[His language was strange, archaic you’d say.

For ‘S’ he’d use ‘F’ like they did on that day.
(Be careful if you mean to say ‘suck!’)]

On 19th July, MDXLV of our Lord,

Mary Rose weighed her anchor, 400 on board.

Little room for manoeuvre, a very slight breeze,

She made for the French fleet upon the high seas.

She tacked onto starboard, her port side went down.

Gun-ports left open, so now they must drown.

Thirty-seven crewmen survived on that day

To speak of the chaos and dreadful affray.

On 19th July, in those days of yore,

The old man survived … he’ll tell you more.
The cabin-boy survived ... he'll tell you more!

CT, July 2014

It scans, with only a little shoe-horning, to the tune Shores of Old Blighty, (Graham Miles.)

* I might miss out that unsavoury interjection about 'S' and 'F'.

With many thanks to Barry who enlightened our visit considerably.

I suppose we should have tipped him a groat-or-two, but we'd run out!