Wednesday 22 December 2010

The Old Blazer and the Snowman

As you know, the Old Blazer loves his organic crops. Many are the days I’ll breeze over to Highgrove and find him in the greenhouse, knee deep in the compost as he gees on the earthworms to greater industry.

‘One can’t help but feel that they respond to a few words of encouragement,’ he will say. ‘In that respect, the common earthworm reminds one very much of the working men of Dagenham…’

Yet, about a month ago, I noticed a distinctive lack of enthusiasm creeping into our conversations. He has been spending less time encouraging and taking more time moping, looking out of the window and sighing a lot. Eventually, I knew there’d be an outburst. Little did I expect the cause to be something so mundane.

‘It’s the snowman,’ cried the Old Blazer, standing in his office and looking out over Highgrove’s grounds. ‘I can’t help but feel like he’s watching me.’

‘What snowman?’ I asked.

‘That snowman there,’ said Papa Onion. ‘One’s staff made it.’

‘Bloody cheek!’ I said taking my position at his shoulder and looking out at the monstrosity. ‘I hope you’ve told them to pull it down. If the newspapers get wind of these pagan rites they’ll compare you with Russell Grant again and you know how that ended up.’

‘That’s just it,’ said the Blazer. ‘One would look an absolute tyrant if one started to pull down snowmen, even if it is a monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant vegetable patch.’

‘You know where I stand on these matters,’ I said. ‘I’d happily pull it down for you. My reputation couldn’t get any lower, unless, of course, they started to compare me with Russell Grant, which would be an outrage. I’ve always seen myself more of a Russell Brand or perhaps even Russell Crow.’

‘Russell Hobbes would be closer to the truth,’ sniped my father who can be a touch sharp when the occasion warrants. ‘However, that’s a very kind gesture, Harry. But it would simply be the wrong thing to do.’ He looked at the snowman again. ‘Besides, over the last few weeks, one has become quite captivated by it. I have the distinctive feeling that it’s looking at me. I know this will sound odd, Harry, but I’m sure I’ve seen it somewhere before.’

‘It’s a snowman,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen it many times before.’

‘No, no,’ said the Old Blazer. ‘But there is something quite specific about this particular snowman. One can’t put one’s finger on it…’

I looked at the snowman but more carefully this time. I looked at the lime green scarf wrapping the oversized head, punctuated by a carrot nose and a couple of lumps of eyes. The hat on the head cast a shadow across the face at the point where the mouth was clamping hold of a briar pipe. That’s when it hit me.

‘It’s the pipe!’ I said.

‘By jove,’ gasped the Old Blazer. ‘You’re right. I never spotted it before! The slope of the shoulders, the penetrating stare. It looks just like Camilla!’

‘Those swines have stolen her pipe,’ I said. ‘It’s an outrage.’
Ten minutes later, we had brought Camilla to the window to identify her pipe.

‘That was my old pipe,’ she laughed in her usual baritone low C. ‘I threw it away last week. Good to know it’s getting some use. My old scarf and hat too I see.’

‘You aren’t slightly dismayed,’ I said, ‘that the staff have recreated you in the form of a snowman?’

‘Touching,’ said Camilla, lighting her calabash. She sucked it into life and then blew a smoke ring. ‘In fact, I’d even go so far as to say that it’s better than being poked with a stick.’

Camilla is always comparing everything to being poked with a stick since she was indeed poked with a stick the other week by those rioters. When the cook under-boiled the sprouts the other night, Camilla wolfed them down whilst assuring us that they were still better than being poked with a stick. When we had yet more snow the other day, that too was better than being poked with a stick and I overheard her telling the American ambassador that not being mentioned in Wikileaks was infinitely preferable than being poked with a stick.

Her indifference was the last straw and I was not having any of it. I ran around to the back door and went out, snatched the pipe from the snowman’s lips, removed the hat and scarf, and began to dismantle the snowman with the toe end of my boot. Then I ate its carrot.

‘Perhaps you can dispose of these in a way that means they don’t end up mocking you from the garden,’ I said, as I came back in doors and handed Camilla her belongings.
Like I said, that was about a month ago.

This morning I sat down to watch H.M’s Christmas broadcast. We always get an early look of her review of the year, even if I had places I’d have preferred to be.

Anyway, I was thumbing through the Radio Times, Wills was standing in the corner of the room whispering sweet somethings to the Lovely Bruntette, Camilla was sitting in her favourite chair cleaning her pipe, and Papa Onion was at my side on the sofa, commenting on the show.

‘No, no,’ I heard him mutter. ‘No, no. That’s not right.’

I looked up. ‘What’s wrong, Papa?’ I asked.

‘That Somali Warlord,’ he said, tugging at the lobe of his right unmentionable. ‘One has the distinctive impression that I know him from somewhere.’

I looked at the screen. It was recent footage from the front line against the war on terror and a heavily armed militia leader was staring into the screen. I looked at the lime green scarf wrapping the oversized head, punctuated by a scarred nose and a couple of eyes as cold and hard as lumps of coal. The hat on the head cast a shadow across the face at the point where the mouth was clamping hold of a briar pipe. That’s when it hit me. I nearly said something but then I shook my head.

‘He has a passing resemblance to Denzel Washington,’ I told him.

‘Ah,’ said the Blazer, visibly relaxing. ‘That must be it.’

I looked across the room and smiled at Camilla. The fact she’d donated her old clothes and pipe to Oxfam was to be commended. It was just unfortunate they’d made their way to a world hotspot, fallen under the gaze of a BBC camera, and made the final cut of The Queen’s Christmas Message. However, all things considered, it could have been worse. As I’m sure she would agree, it was better in fact than being poked with a stick.

1 comment:

  1. Always said that the Old Blazer was just too soft on the help. If Thunderer Snr discovered the help performing escapades like that in the snow, he would have them flogged by the butler!

    Awful news about the hat and the pipe. First time I met the old gal, she was wearing the very hat. Gave me quite a shock as she appeared from a real pea-souper pipe smog (caused by that rather unusual herbal baccy you brought her back from Afghanistan). For a moment, I thought it was that wide-eyed Doctor Who fella and asked her for an autograph.

    I bet she still has a bit of a giggle about that.

    Jolly Chrimbo, Thundy.

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