"Do not panic," Basil says steadily, squeezing your hand.
"What? Why? Who?..." you stutter.
"I don't know. But it didn't close on its own, did it. The thing weighs a ton. That doesn't matter right now. We need to find a way out of here."
You climb the ladder and start hammering on the underside of the stone. Basil drops the flashlight and climbs up the ladder beside you. He grabs your fists and tries to calm you down. Granted, you aren't handling things very well.
Finally, you're calm again. He grabs the flashlight and asks, "Do you really think the person who just took the trouble to lock us down here is going to let us up again?"
"I suppose not."
"We have to find a way out. It's a maze down here. Here, you take the flashlight, I'm going to walk forward an try to find a door or a window. You shine it in my direction. There's got to be something, somewhere."
You want to believe there might be, but the chances seem grim. To your amazement, he soon uncovers two barred windows and a hopelessly sealed-up door. Pry as you might, it isn't budging.
"Someone's taken a lot of trouble to secure this space," he notes thoughtlessly.
You're already having trouble breathing. You know it's your imagination, but that might only mean you're about to die of imagination.
"The ground slopes here," he explains, "We're not really in a basement. This area has to have some relationship to the castle itself."
"A prison," you add.
"Don't be depressing. It was probably for storage, not people. That's why it's ventilated. It can't be a priest's hole, since it spans the length of several rooms. Maybe it was a wine cellar. Or part of the kitchen. It must connect to something."
You like his logic. You love it, in fact. And he's right. It's far too large a space to be a secret. You're practically running now, tripping over antique junk to keep up with him. You have to close your ears to the sounds of scrabbling rodents.
"Basil!" You've stopped short. You're pointing at a painting of three people, gathered around a harpsichord. The black checkerboard floor is a dead giveaway.
Basil comes back to you. "Looks like a Vermeer."
"It IS a Vermeer! It's called 'The Concert'. It was stolen from a museum in Boston in 1990 and is still missing."
"Well, it's not missing anymore."
"Oh my God, Basil! Look at this!"
"That's not a Vermeer is it? It's not very good."
You're both looking at a loose beachscape, with a sketch quality to it.
"It IS very good. It's a Monet. It's called 'Marine.' Don't you remember? It was stolen from a museum in Brazil. The thieves took advantage of a passing parade and disappeared into the crowd with a Picasso, a Dali, a Matisse, and this."
"Could this be the Matisse?" he asks.
You gasp. "Luxembourg Garden!" It's even more beautiful than you'd have imagined.
"So, now we know why we aren't supposed to be down here. These people are serious criminals. Doesn't bode well for our escape, does it."
You're so engrossed in the paintings, you momentarily forgot about your predicament.
"You're right," you agree, shivering again.
"Let's keep looking."
It's over an hour before he spots something. It's a tall outline... a door. It isn't sealed with cement, only nailed over with planks. As soon as you shine the light on it, Basil begins to throw himself against the door. You hear him making injured noises, and see him wincing at each renewed heave. A rusty nail or two has caught him on the sleeve and torn his jacket. Blood is beginning to show through the tan fabric.
"Basil, you can't keep doing that," you panic.
"Got to," he groans, slamming into the door again. There's finally a noise, from the door this time. Encouraged, he backs up and makes a running start. You cover your face. More splintering. You drop the flashlight and meet him at the far wall. The door of you begin to run and simultaneously throw yourselves against the door. With a grinding crack, it opens. You are back in the parlor, laying on the floor in front of the fire. A panel in the wall has opened and it's still revolving. Just before it reunites with the wall, Basil rushes inside it. It grates back into place, leaving no sign behind. Now, you are just a lone person, lying on the floor of the parlor.
"What's happening in here?" Lady Rackrent asks, rushing in breathlessly.
You are reluctant to confide in Lady Rackrent, harmless though she may look in that ridiculous moo moo. It'd be easy enough to and say you tripped on the andirons. If Lady Rackrent's involved in the art thefts, you certainly don't want to confide in her. Chose 'A'.
But if you really can't compose yourself in time, maybe you're more inclined to blurt out what just happened. You don't really think she is involved in the thefts. Chose 'B'.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose - Part XII
Finally Naked! You rinse the soapy debris of three days into the sudsy lather of the bubble bath and pat yourself dry by the fire. You can still hear Lady Rackrent's off-pitch singing through the doors, but you're not bothered. Maybe she'll lose her voice and subsequently have less to say at dinner. You hope the old bird will fall asleep early, so you can show Basil that hole in the floor.
SO the black dress with peach ruffles must be in one of those boxes, since you've been commanded to wear a gown. You're feeling a little like a kept woman, or a geisha girl-- and the feeling is actually quite nice. You open a box... ah! The black dress. You dance with it, circling the rug. You feel like a different person. A clean person. Basil, waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, gives a wolf whistle.
"Where's your sketchbook?" he asks, suddenly all business.
You run back upstairs and grab it. Basil shows you into the parlor where Lay Rackrent is stretching her hamburger-textured legs out on a chaise lounge. The nose is on an ornate table between the two coaches. You sit beside Basil and pretend to contemplate the nose studiously. Lady Rackrent wants to know what you think of her nose.
"Well," you laugh, "It's clearly the finest severed nose I've ever seen."
Lady Rackrent seems satisfied. She makes it clear that she believes the nose has great value. And even if it doesn't, she's determined to return it to the owner's face. Basil shows her your work from the Royal Museum. She marvels over your sketches; particularly fascinated by the floating noses in the margins.
"Super, my dear," she drools,flipping. "Super..."
"Califragilisticespialidocious?" you offer.
"Indeed," she nods, not listening. "My dear I would like to commission you."
"Commission me?" you parrot. You've had just about enough bizarre commissions for one vacation.
"Yes. I want you to paint my portrait. I will pay handsomely of course. I will wear my pink hat and I would like my poor deceased Grover," she points to a stuffed ferret, "to appear quite lifelike on my lap. Will you do it?"
You're mute. But she takes your silence for agreement.
"Wondrous!" she squeals.
Two Rays enter. At least that little mystery is solved. There are twin Ray/Roys. You feel that the stars are aligning and the universe is falling back into order. Roy and Ray show you into the dining. It dwarfs you to the size of an ant. There are already rolls and shrimp cocktails at your three setting. Lady Rackrent stuffs two shrimps in her mouth at once and spits out the tails. She wants to know when you will start her portrait.
"In the morning."
Basil coughs.
"I mean the afternoon."
Lady Rackrent doesn't awake in the morning, so the afternoon suits her just fine. She's so pleased with you, she insists that you keep the nose in your room. For inspiration. One great work of art can inspire another, she believes. You cordially agree and accept he nose. It's also a wonderful knife rest.
As soon as dinner is over, Lady Rackrent, with an ostentatious display of fatique (and ham) announces she's going to rest for her sitting the following afternoon. The second she leaves, you and Basil turn to each other eagerly.
"What are you doing now? Do you want to work with me on the nose?" Basil asks.
"I forgot to tell you!" you squeak, "I found a trap door in my room!"
You win. Basil runs for his flashlight and the two of you tiptoe upstairs. The yawning black hole is still open, just the way you left it. Basil hurls himself down the stairs and then reaches up a hand you help you down. He flashes the light around the massive cellar space. You shiver.
"I just got such a bad feeling about this," you tell him, one foot on the ladder to retreat. As the flashlight beam illuminates the corners of the room, you are seeing a graveyard of junk. Rusted garden tools, broken bicycles, busted statues... "Statues!"
"Exactly," Basil agrees, focusing the light on a travertine god with no nose. "GO get that nose!"
You shimmy back up the ladder and into your suite. You grab the nose off your bedside table and scurry back down into the pit.
"You can do it," he says, graciously.
"No, I want you to," you say, handing him the nose. "It's your project. I'm painting Grover."
Excited and boyish, he grabs the nose. You make a drum roll while he hand reaches with exquisite slowness toward the face. Then footsteps. The sounds of rocks scraping. And the trap door falling back into place.
"It doesn't fit," he says, in the near blackness.
"Basil!" you scream. "We're trapped!"
Nice one. Tomorrow you'll find out whether you've survived long enough to warrant another installment.
SO the black dress with peach ruffles must be in one of those boxes, since you've been commanded to wear a gown. You're feeling a little like a kept woman, or a geisha girl-- and the feeling is actually quite nice. You open a box... ah! The black dress. You dance with it, circling the rug. You feel like a different person. A clean person. Basil, waiting for you at the bottom of the stairs, gives a wolf whistle.
"Where's your sketchbook?" he asks, suddenly all business.
You run back upstairs and grab it. Basil shows you into the parlor where Lay Rackrent is stretching her hamburger-textured legs out on a chaise lounge. The nose is on an ornate table between the two coaches. You sit beside Basil and pretend to contemplate the nose studiously. Lady Rackrent wants to know what you think of her nose.
"Well," you laugh, "It's clearly the finest severed nose I've ever seen."
Lady Rackrent seems satisfied. She makes it clear that she believes the nose has great value. And even if it doesn't, she's determined to return it to the owner's face. Basil shows her your work from the Royal Museum. She marvels over your sketches; particularly fascinated by the floating noses in the margins.
"Super, my dear," she drools,flipping. "Super..."
"Califragilisticespialidocious?" you offer.
"Indeed," she nods, not listening. "My dear I would like to commission you."
"Commission me?" you parrot. You've had just about enough bizarre commissions for one vacation.
"Yes. I want you to paint my portrait. I will pay handsomely of course. I will wear my pink hat and I would like my poor deceased Grover," she points to a stuffed ferret, "to appear quite lifelike on my lap. Will you do it?"
You're mute. But she takes your silence for agreement.
"Wondrous!" she squeals.
Two Rays enter. At least that little mystery is solved. There are twin Ray/Roys. You feel that the stars are aligning and the universe is falling back into order. Roy and Ray show you into the dining. It dwarfs you to the size of an ant. There are already rolls and shrimp cocktails at your three setting. Lady Rackrent stuffs two shrimps in her mouth at once and spits out the tails. She wants to know when you will start her portrait.
"In the morning."
Basil coughs.
"I mean the afternoon."
Lady Rackrent doesn't awake in the morning, so the afternoon suits her just fine. She's so pleased with you, she insists that you keep the nose in your room. For inspiration. One great work of art can inspire another, she believes. You cordially agree and accept he nose. It's also a wonderful knife rest.
As soon as dinner is over, Lady Rackrent, with an ostentatious display of fatique (and ham) announces she's going to rest for her sitting the following afternoon. The second she leaves, you and Basil turn to each other eagerly.
"What are you doing now? Do you want to work with me on the nose?" Basil asks.
"I forgot to tell you!" you squeak, "I found a trap door in my room!"
You win. Basil runs for his flashlight and the two of you tiptoe upstairs. The yawning black hole is still open, just the way you left it. Basil hurls himself down the stairs and then reaches up a hand you help you down. He flashes the light around the massive cellar space. You shiver.
"I just got such a bad feeling about this," you tell him, one foot on the ladder to retreat. As the flashlight beam illuminates the corners of the room, you are seeing a graveyard of junk. Rusted garden tools, broken bicycles, busted statues... "Statues!"
"Exactly," Basil agrees, focusing the light on a travertine god with no nose. "GO get that nose!"
You shimmy back up the ladder and into your suite. You grab the nose off your bedside table and scurry back down into the pit.
"You can do it," he says, graciously.
"No, I want you to," you say, handing him the nose. "It's your project. I'm painting Grover."
Excited and boyish, he grabs the nose. You make a drum roll while he hand reaches with exquisite slowness toward the face. Then footsteps. The sounds of rocks scraping. And the trap door falling back into place.
"It doesn't fit," he says, in the near blackness.
"Basil!" you scream. "We're trapped!"
Nice one. Tomorrow you'll find out whether you've survived long enough to warrant another installment.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose-- Part XI
Suite at Rackrent
You are baffled as to how the Adams Family butler got your bag to your room before you. He didn’t pass you on the stairs. But, forget that. Your suite is fantastic! Fantastical is a better word. The stone floors are scattered with jewel-colored Persian rugs. Massive wooden buttresses cut across the ceiling, and a gossamer canopy spills from one of the beams like a turquoise waterfall behind the massive oak bed. There are actually a set of stairs beside it, which you will certainly need. Built-in bookcases line all four walls, even framing the fireplace. The bird-of-paradise wallpaper starts far up the wall, where the bookcases end. The double doors between your bedroom and bathroom are paned with ruby-colored glass.
“Excuse me, Madam,” the butler/driver startles you. He deposits the boxes from your shopping adventures on a low table.
“I’m sorry, but do you have a name?” you ask. “I feel strange not calling you anything.”
“Calling me, Madam? There’s a bell on the mantle…”
“Addressing you, I mean.”
“Roy, Madam. The name is Roy.”
Easily enough to remember. Not a Jeeves or a Raffles, or Baffles or Ruffles. Just Roy. He bows and exits, closing the doors behind him.
A library ladder is propped up against one wall. You can see there’s a track on which you can hook and slide the ladder. You can that on top of the bookcases, there are numerous bell jars containing taxidermy animals—it’s a virtual menagerie of stuffed birds and forest folk, who seem to be pausing simultaneously in the act of collecting nuts, sparring, foraging. You get the sensation that time is standing still. Will the presence of all of those bared canines affect your sleep? Will you dream of your travertine god fighting with a mongoose or a pterodactyl? Shivering, you glance to the table and wonder which of the boxes your black dress is in. You can hear some overindulgent singing wafting up from below—no doubt Lady Rackrent. As she sings, the bell jars rattle on the shelves and suddenly the room seems alive; the perfectly-preserved creatures might very well liberate themselves at any moment from the library shelves.
“Here you are, Madam,” a voice says behind you.
“Oh! Christ, Roy. You startled me.”
“Ray, Madam.”
“Sorry. I mean thanks.”
He deposits two more boxes on your bed and closes the doors behind him. Your heart is hammering so wildly, it might tear a hole through your tweed jacket. You’re shaking terribly. You ball up some firewood and ball up scraps of a newspaper you have no intention of reading. Fire devours the newspaper the moment you light the match. Probably you should have rung for Roy. Ray. But he’s so—startling. It burns beautifully. The hearth is an inferno. So why are you still shivering? You stop again to collect more wood from the pail and notice something odd; there’s a weird cut-out shape hiding beneath the rug. You lift the corner of the rug and spot a mismatched square stone in the otherwise slab floor. The stone has a brass circle pull on it. The hardware looks ancient and the stone looks like a back-breaker. But could this be a trap door?
You can’t help yourself. You grab the ring and pull. Then you realize you’ll need to stand to get leverage. Standing, you yank the stone as mightily until it gives—at the very moment that several of your vertebrae reposition themselves in your spine. You’re in pain, but you’ve done it! You’ve discovered a trap door. You snatch the candle from the little shepherdess statue and shine it into the cavern. All you can see is steps.
Can you stomach another slippery descent into the netherworld? If your curiosity can’t wait… and you trust the look of that trap door, then hold that candle tightly and down you go. Choose ‘A’.
But wait a minute. If you wait to tell Basil about your discovery, then he’ll surely want to come and you won’t have to go alone. Nor will you have to take a candle when he’s got a flashlight. That’s what you’ll do… you run the bath water and dance around in a lather of anticipation. Choose ‘B’.
You are baffled as to how the Adams Family butler got your bag to your room before you. He didn’t pass you on the stairs. But, forget that. Your suite is fantastic! Fantastical is a better word. The stone floors are scattered with jewel-colored Persian rugs. Massive wooden buttresses cut across the ceiling, and a gossamer canopy spills from one of the beams like a turquoise waterfall behind the massive oak bed. There are actually a set of stairs beside it, which you will certainly need. Built-in bookcases line all four walls, even framing the fireplace. The bird-of-paradise wallpaper starts far up the wall, where the bookcases end. The double doors between your bedroom and bathroom are paned with ruby-colored glass.
“Excuse me, Madam,” the butler/driver startles you. He deposits the boxes from your shopping adventures on a low table.
“I’m sorry, but do you have a name?” you ask. “I feel strange not calling you anything.”
“Calling me, Madam? There’s a bell on the mantle…”
“Addressing you, I mean.”
“Roy, Madam. The name is Roy.”
Easily enough to remember. Not a Jeeves or a Raffles, or Baffles or Ruffles. Just Roy. He bows and exits, closing the doors behind him.
A library ladder is propped up against one wall. You can see there’s a track on which you can hook and slide the ladder. You can that on top of the bookcases, there are numerous bell jars containing taxidermy animals—it’s a virtual menagerie of stuffed birds and forest folk, who seem to be pausing simultaneously in the act of collecting nuts, sparring, foraging. You get the sensation that time is standing still. Will the presence of all of those bared canines affect your sleep? Will you dream of your travertine god fighting with a mongoose or a pterodactyl? Shivering, you glance to the table and wonder which of the boxes your black dress is in. You can hear some overindulgent singing wafting up from below—no doubt Lady Rackrent. As she sings, the bell jars rattle on the shelves and suddenly the room seems alive; the perfectly-preserved creatures might very well liberate themselves at any moment from the library shelves.
“Here you are, Madam,” a voice says behind you.
“Oh! Christ, Roy. You startled me.”
“Ray, Madam.”
“Sorry. I mean thanks.”
He deposits two more boxes on your bed and closes the doors behind him. Your heart is hammering so wildly, it might tear a hole through your tweed jacket. You’re shaking terribly. You ball up some firewood and ball up scraps of a newspaper you have no intention of reading. Fire devours the newspaper the moment you light the match. Probably you should have rung for Roy. Ray. But he’s so—startling. It burns beautifully. The hearth is an inferno. So why are you still shivering? You stop again to collect more wood from the pail and notice something odd; there’s a weird cut-out shape hiding beneath the rug. You lift the corner of the rug and spot a mismatched square stone in the otherwise slab floor. The stone has a brass circle pull on it. The hardware looks ancient and the stone looks like a back-breaker. But could this be a trap door?
You can’t help yourself. You grab the ring and pull. Then you realize you’ll need to stand to get leverage. Standing, you yank the stone as mightily until it gives—at the very moment that several of your vertebrae reposition themselves in your spine. You’re in pain, but you’ve done it! You’ve discovered a trap door. You snatch the candle from the little shepherdess statue and shine it into the cavern. All you can see is steps.
Can you stomach another slippery descent into the netherworld? If your curiosity can’t wait… and you trust the look of that trap door, then hold that candle tightly and down you go. Choose ‘A’.
But wait a minute. If you wait to tell Basil about your discovery, then he’ll surely want to come and you won’t have to go alone. Nor will you have to take a candle when he’s got a flashlight. That’s what you’ll do… you run the bath water and dance around in a lather of anticipation. Choose ‘B’.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Adventur of the Travertine Nose-- Part X
Castle Rackrent
The village of Bantry looks like a postcard. Now that the unnerving driver is in the front seat, and all you can see of him are his eyes in the rear view mirror, you’re feeling rather excited.
“Will we go out for a pint tonight?” you ask brightly. The site of all the easel boards propped on the cobbled lanes gives you the idea. You pass a woolens shop, a baker, a bookstore. “We will come into town, won’t we?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Basil says dully, deflating you.
“Why not?” you pout like a spoiled child.
“I mean we will, but maybe not tonight, love. We’ll probably be entertained by Lady Rackrent. You can impress me by wearing your best dress tonight.”
That also sounds quite good to you. You’re suddenly glad that Basil egged you on to get those frocks. This seems like just the sort of evening wherein you’ll be sitting around a long, awkward table, Lady Rackrent at one end, hollering witticisms to one another over the barricade of smoking platters. Maybe in Wodehouse style, someone will be bumping around at night, attempting to steal a family heirloom or a compromising diary page from someone else’s room. The whole thing will be botched and you’ll all end up standing around a polar bear rug, rumpled and wrinkled in your pajamas when the lights come on and the bungling burglar turns out to be the visiting cousin who’s tripped on the polar bear rug. How charming that would be—a little intrigue.
Castle Rackrent is a couple of miles from the village. It does seem rather like Castle Dracula as you make your approach. The sky is suddenly silver and ominous, casting long, threatening shadows over the verdant lawns. A narrow stone wall leads up to the castle, snaking over the moat, which is more like a lake than a moat. It is a tall, narrow building, heavily fortified, with crenelations all along the roof.
“Oh my paws,” Basil notes, “I hope they haven’t got a catapult up there or we’re finished.”
You don’t quite like the remark. And you’ve never seen a drawbridge in action. Instead of charming you with its antiquated mechanism, it makes you nervous. You duck while the car passes under the stone arch. The bridge snaps shut behind you like a trap door.
“I wonder if Captain Hook left any crocodiles in the moat,” you joke, trying to sounds as light as Basil, but your voice gives a telltale waver.
“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Basil assures. “You are a trusting soul.”
It’s nice of him to notice. After all, you were penned up in a museum crypt with this stranger-- only hours after you were robbed of all your earthly possessions. Maybe you are a little too trusting. Or maybe you’re just a great adventurer. That sounds better.
The ghoulish looking driver hurries to open the door for you. You stop out into a square courtyard flanked by four turrets. In your orange tweed jacket (Basil’s choice), you feel like the lady of the manor. Pairs of swans are noodling around the moat, and a darling collie comes to greet you. A plump woman (and that’s kind) appears in the gigantic doorway decorated with comic gargoyles. Her hair is knotted on top of her head like fresh mozzarella. She wails when she speaks, like an operatic diva.
“Here you are, doctor! It’s right here in my hand!”
The woman is obviously insane.
“This is Darby Hemming,” Basil says, gesturing to you.
Instead of shaking your hand, the woman uncurls the fingers of her fat fist and reveals a travertine nose. You’re not acting when you try to appear awed.
“Darby, this is Lady Rackrent.”
You curtsey stupidly, still staring at the nose. Your brain is already trying to attach it to the noses you sketched last night. When Basil drops the nose into his pocket, Lady Rackrent acknowledges you properly.
“My family is seven times removed from the Royal family, my dear. If it weren’t for those people in between, I would be Queen, you see.” You do see… Lady Rackrent is out of her mind. “Don’t fuss, my dear. You needn’t bow. Unless you’d like to.”
The ghoulish driver whispers into your ear. “You’d better my, lass.”
The entrance hall is astonishing. Chandeliers the size of Ferris wheels, with twice as many lights, hang from the ceiling. The ceiling is so far away, it might as well be the evening sky you’re looking at. A double staircase leads to a long gallery on the next landing. The gallery is lined with exotic potted plants, and it smells like a chapter out of Arabian Nights. A series of vases and alcoves house little nude statues, all of which have noses.
“Your room, my dear is to the left. And yours, my dear doctor, is to the right.” Lady Rackrent points to the opposite side of the staircase. “Dinner is in one hour and twenty-two minutes. We will talk about the nose over duck.” She turns and retreats downstairs.
“Do you want to cross-reference the nose with me now,” Basil asks?
Do you want to cross-reference the nose now?! You haven’t showered for two days. You have a delicious suite waiting for you and a bath that’s probably the size of the Titanic. You want to removed the debris of travel, and appear at dinner looking like a real lady. Choose ‘A’.
Bath? You’ve come this far smelling like a walking pigpen. You really couldn’t care less how you look for dinner. You’re going to look at the nose for the next hour and twenty-two minutes. Choose ‘B’.
The village of Bantry looks like a postcard. Now that the unnerving driver is in the front seat, and all you can see of him are his eyes in the rear view mirror, you’re feeling rather excited.
“Will we go out for a pint tonight?” you ask brightly. The site of all the easel boards propped on the cobbled lanes gives you the idea. You pass a woolens shop, a baker, a bookstore. “We will come into town, won’t we?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Basil says dully, deflating you.
“Why not?” you pout like a spoiled child.
“I mean we will, but maybe not tonight, love. We’ll probably be entertained by Lady Rackrent. You can impress me by wearing your best dress tonight.”
That also sounds quite good to you. You’re suddenly glad that Basil egged you on to get those frocks. This seems like just the sort of evening wherein you’ll be sitting around a long, awkward table, Lady Rackrent at one end, hollering witticisms to one another over the barricade of smoking platters. Maybe in Wodehouse style, someone will be bumping around at night, attempting to steal a family heirloom or a compromising diary page from someone else’s room. The whole thing will be botched and you’ll all end up standing around a polar bear rug, rumpled and wrinkled in your pajamas when the lights come on and the bungling burglar turns out to be the visiting cousin who’s tripped on the polar bear rug. How charming that would be—a little intrigue.
Castle Rackrent is a couple of miles from the village. It does seem rather like Castle Dracula as you make your approach. The sky is suddenly silver and ominous, casting long, threatening shadows over the verdant lawns. A narrow stone wall leads up to the castle, snaking over the moat, which is more like a lake than a moat. It is a tall, narrow building, heavily fortified, with crenelations all along the roof.
“Oh my paws,” Basil notes, “I hope they haven’t got a catapult up there or we’re finished.”
You don’t quite like the remark. And you’ve never seen a drawbridge in action. Instead of charming you with its antiquated mechanism, it makes you nervous. You duck while the car passes under the stone arch. The bridge snaps shut behind you like a trap door.
“I wonder if Captain Hook left any crocodiles in the moat,” you joke, trying to sounds as light as Basil, but your voice gives a telltale waver.
“It’s quite alright, my dear,” Basil assures. “You are a trusting soul.”
It’s nice of him to notice. After all, you were penned up in a museum crypt with this stranger-- only hours after you were robbed of all your earthly possessions. Maybe you are a little too trusting. Or maybe you’re just a great adventurer. That sounds better.
The ghoulish looking driver hurries to open the door for you. You stop out into a square courtyard flanked by four turrets. In your orange tweed jacket (Basil’s choice), you feel like the lady of the manor. Pairs of swans are noodling around the moat, and a darling collie comes to greet you. A plump woman (and that’s kind) appears in the gigantic doorway decorated with comic gargoyles. Her hair is knotted on top of her head like fresh mozzarella. She wails when she speaks, like an operatic diva.
“Here you are, doctor! It’s right here in my hand!”
The woman is obviously insane.
“This is Darby Hemming,” Basil says, gesturing to you.
Instead of shaking your hand, the woman uncurls the fingers of her fat fist and reveals a travertine nose. You’re not acting when you try to appear awed.
“Darby, this is Lady Rackrent.”
You curtsey stupidly, still staring at the nose. Your brain is already trying to attach it to the noses you sketched last night. When Basil drops the nose into his pocket, Lady Rackrent acknowledges you properly.
“My family is seven times removed from the Royal family, my dear. If it weren’t for those people in between, I would be Queen, you see.” You do see… Lady Rackrent is out of her mind. “Don’t fuss, my dear. You needn’t bow. Unless you’d like to.”
The ghoulish driver whispers into your ear. “You’d better my, lass.”
The entrance hall is astonishing. Chandeliers the size of Ferris wheels, with twice as many lights, hang from the ceiling. The ceiling is so far away, it might as well be the evening sky you’re looking at. A double staircase leads to a long gallery on the next landing. The gallery is lined with exotic potted plants, and it smells like a chapter out of Arabian Nights. A series of vases and alcoves house little nude statues, all of which have noses.
“Your room, my dear is to the left. And yours, my dear doctor, is to the right.” Lady Rackrent points to the opposite side of the staircase. “Dinner is in one hour and twenty-two minutes. We will talk about the nose over duck.” She turns and retreats downstairs.
“Do you want to cross-reference the nose with me now,” Basil asks?
Do you want to cross-reference the nose now?! You haven’t showered for two days. You have a delicious suite waiting for you and a bath that’s probably the size of the Titanic. You want to removed the debris of travel, and appear at dinner looking like a real lady. Choose ‘A’.
Bath? You’ve come this far smelling like a walking pigpen. You really couldn’t care less how you look for dinner. You’re going to look at the nose for the next hour and twenty-two minutes. Choose ‘B’.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose-- Part IX
To the Highlands
Basil’s relief shows on his face when you hop out onto the doorstep before he knocks. You were watching for him from the morning room window with a sausage roll in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“So, where’s your stuff?” Basil asks.
You frown deeply and pointedly at him.
“That’s right. That’s right. It was late last night, cut me a break.” Instead, you hand him your coffee as you walk in the direction of Princes Street. “Is that smell you?” he asks.
You realize that, being an archeologist, his social skills may be primeval. You frown at him again.
“I mean, what is that unusual bouquet?” he amends.
“It’s called ‘Eau de Traveled-Overnight-and-Then-was-Robbed-of-Everything-and-Kidnapped-to-a-Dusty-Museum-Where-I-Was-Made-to-Draw-Noses-All-Night’. Kicky, isn’t it?”
“Tangy,” he agrees.
Princes Street is already a hornet’s nest of shoppers. Although you are a rabid antiquer, clothes shopping is something you’re always had to be in the mood for. And you’re not. Happily, Basil keeps pulling things off the rack and saying ‘What about this?’ Amazingly, he’s choosing some really lovely things. Skirts and dresses. You aren’t someone who typically wears skirts or dresses, but the lovely, Liberty prints are dancing with the promise of spring. Without consulting you, he adds a pair of Etruscan-looking hoops at the counter.
“Your thingies have holes, don’t they?” he asks, peering at your ears, and exhibiting an utter lack of women-talk. “Shoes! You need shoes! You can’t wear those sandals all the time; we may find ourselves in some murky places.”
You inform him that, while you’ve lost all your clothes, you do have your purse and your credit cards, but he won’t hear of it-- he is so absolutely sure that you’ll both be rolling in Lady Rackrent’s money soon.
“Basil!” you have to shout, to shoo him away from the hats. “I need some other things, if you know what I mean.”
His mouth drops open into an ‘O’, and he drags you next door, into a lingerie shop. He discreetly sinks onto a brocade sette and flaps open the newspaper. When you emerge from the dressing room, he springs up to the counter to pay.
“Anything else?” he asks, seemingly enjoying the novelty.
“No, nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asks. “Are you sure? What about a shower cap?”
“No.”
“Curlers?”
“What year do you think this is?”
“Perfume?”
You make a mean face.
He shrugs and unzips the suitcase he’s bought you. Carefully, as though he’s working through a Byzantine crypt, he arranges all your bags inside. Your train for Bantry Bay is already on the platform at Waverly Station. The conductor’s giving his last warning whistle and the porters are slamming the doors. Basil hurls your suitcases aboard. He physically lifts you onto the train as it begins to move. As a result of his gallantry, he has to run and hop onto the train like James Bond in order to catch up with it. You’re a nervous wreck for a moment, until he arrives in your cabin with a travertine godlike bound, and pulls the swinging door shut behind him.
“I’m too old for that, I fancy,” head admits, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Basil produces two first-class tickets (his and Margaret’s) when the porter appears. Soon after, the catering cart comes clattering up the aisle and Basil buys eight bottles of wine, six bacon sandwiches, two salads, and four bags of chips.
“Oh! And two Battenberg’s,” he adds. Then turning to you, “Do you think this will tide us over for a couple of hours?”
You roll your eyes. “I think this is enough to give us indigestion for a couple of weeks.”
He tears the plastic off his sandwich like a jackal approaches a rabbit carcass. “Which one?” he asks, holding out on unread Agatha Christie and a catalog from the British Museum.
You snatch the Agatha Christie. It’s the one about Miss Marple and the murder on the train. You’ve read it ten times at least, but eleven is your lucky number. Without any warning, Basil falls asleep; his heavy head finds the space between the seatback and the window. After a few spasmodic twitches and the repetition of a word that sounds like ‘crumpet’ he is in a very deep sleep.
You’re exhausted, and you should fall asleep too, but the thrill of the adventure has you ridiculously keyed up. How can the sight of grazing sheep and horses wearing plaid blankets be so thrilling? Everytime you spot a castle high up on a hilltop, you have to wake Basil and show him. To his credit, he appears to be excited, every time. When you hit a very long tunnel and the view is nothing but the reflection of your tired-looking face in the black window, you reach for the sketchbook sticking out of Basil’s open valise. You slip it out gingerly, and flip backward; admiring the paintings he’s made. You find a series of small landscapes: a garden in the rain hemmed in by a rustic fence…grey water lapping a rocky shore with wooden boats gently knocking each other…a village church at dawn atop a steep, crooked street… the exterior of the Sleeping Bee… the statue of the mounted rider holding his flag, opposite the Sleeping Bee. He must have done those on his way to get you that morning.
‘Did he really do all these?’ you mumble aloud, flipping through a series of vignettes. ‘St. Mary’s in Rye’, you say, recognizing the bell tower. He’s used every color in the paintbox to capture the swirls on a tearoom carpet, and a thousand shades of brick red to paint rectories and farmhouses. He seems to have invented a crimson that is reserved for rowboats and smoking jackets. And the walnut brown he used for the rat terrier! You are stunned. You close the sketchbook quietly and return to gazing dreamily out the window.
The train wheezes to a stop at Bantry Bay and you shake Basil. The moment you alight from the train, and glance around at the lush, green hills—rugged and jagged and lovely. A lifeless-looking man who resembles a zombie in tails is standing with a sign that says ‘Castle Rackrent’.
“Here’s our monster,” Basil jokes, “Going to take us to Castle Nightmare.”
He’s laughing but you’re suddenly having abdominal cramps. You manage to smile as Basil hands the zombie your suitcases.
Basil has made the choice for you…like it or not, you’re bound for Castle Rackrent. Your next decision will come tomorrow.
Basil’s relief shows on his face when you hop out onto the doorstep before he knocks. You were watching for him from the morning room window with a sausage roll in one hand and a coffee in the other.
“So, where’s your stuff?” Basil asks.
You frown deeply and pointedly at him.
“That’s right. That’s right. It was late last night, cut me a break.” Instead, you hand him your coffee as you walk in the direction of Princes Street. “Is that smell you?” he asks.
You realize that, being an archeologist, his social skills may be primeval. You frown at him again.
“I mean, what is that unusual bouquet?” he amends.
“It’s called ‘Eau de Traveled-Overnight-and-Then-was-Robbed-of-Everything-and-Kidnapped-to-a-Dusty-Museum-Where-I-Was-Made-to-Draw-Noses-All-Night’. Kicky, isn’t it?”
“Tangy,” he agrees.
Princes Street is already a hornet’s nest of shoppers. Although you are a rabid antiquer, clothes shopping is something you’re always had to be in the mood for. And you’re not. Happily, Basil keeps pulling things off the rack and saying ‘What about this?’ Amazingly, he’s choosing some really lovely things. Skirts and dresses. You aren’t someone who typically wears skirts or dresses, but the lovely, Liberty prints are dancing with the promise of spring. Without consulting you, he adds a pair of Etruscan-looking hoops at the counter.
“Your thingies have holes, don’t they?” he asks, peering at your ears, and exhibiting an utter lack of women-talk. “Shoes! You need shoes! You can’t wear those sandals all the time; we may find ourselves in some murky places.”
You inform him that, while you’ve lost all your clothes, you do have your purse and your credit cards, but he won’t hear of it-- he is so absolutely sure that you’ll both be rolling in Lady Rackrent’s money soon.
“Basil!” you have to shout, to shoo him away from the hats. “I need some other things, if you know what I mean.”
His mouth drops open into an ‘O’, and he drags you next door, into a lingerie shop. He discreetly sinks onto a brocade sette and flaps open the newspaper. When you emerge from the dressing room, he springs up to the counter to pay.
“Anything else?” he asks, seemingly enjoying the novelty.
“No, nothing.”
“Nothing?” he asks. “Are you sure? What about a shower cap?”
“No.”
“Curlers?”
“What year do you think this is?”
“Perfume?”
You make a mean face.
He shrugs and unzips the suitcase he’s bought you. Carefully, as though he’s working through a Byzantine crypt, he arranges all your bags inside. Your train for Bantry Bay is already on the platform at Waverly Station. The conductor’s giving his last warning whistle and the porters are slamming the doors. Basil hurls your suitcases aboard. He physically lifts you onto the train as it begins to move. As a result of his gallantry, he has to run and hop onto the train like James Bond in order to catch up with it. You’re a nervous wreck for a moment, until he arrives in your cabin with a travertine godlike bound, and pulls the swinging door shut behind him.
“I’m too old for that, I fancy,” head admits, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief. Basil produces two first-class tickets (his and Margaret’s) when the porter appears. Soon after, the catering cart comes clattering up the aisle and Basil buys eight bottles of wine, six bacon sandwiches, two salads, and four bags of chips.
“Oh! And two Battenberg’s,” he adds. Then turning to you, “Do you think this will tide us over for a couple of hours?”
You roll your eyes. “I think this is enough to give us indigestion for a couple of weeks.”
He tears the plastic off his sandwich like a jackal approaches a rabbit carcass. “Which one?” he asks, holding out on unread Agatha Christie and a catalog from the British Museum.
You snatch the Agatha Christie. It’s the one about Miss Marple and the murder on the train. You’ve read it ten times at least, but eleven is your lucky number. Without any warning, Basil falls asleep; his heavy head finds the space between the seatback and the window. After a few spasmodic twitches and the repetition of a word that sounds like ‘crumpet’ he is in a very deep sleep.
You’re exhausted, and you should fall asleep too, but the thrill of the adventure has you ridiculously keyed up. How can the sight of grazing sheep and horses wearing plaid blankets be so thrilling? Everytime you spot a castle high up on a hilltop, you have to wake Basil and show him. To his credit, he appears to be excited, every time. When you hit a very long tunnel and the view is nothing but the reflection of your tired-looking face in the black window, you reach for the sketchbook sticking out of Basil’s open valise. You slip it out gingerly, and flip backward; admiring the paintings he’s made. You find a series of small landscapes: a garden in the rain hemmed in by a rustic fence…grey water lapping a rocky shore with wooden boats gently knocking each other…a village church at dawn atop a steep, crooked street… the exterior of the Sleeping Bee… the statue of the mounted rider holding his flag, opposite the Sleeping Bee. He must have done those on his way to get you that morning.
‘Did he really do all these?’ you mumble aloud, flipping through a series of vignettes. ‘St. Mary’s in Rye’, you say, recognizing the bell tower. He’s used every color in the paintbox to capture the swirls on a tearoom carpet, and a thousand shades of brick red to paint rectories and farmhouses. He seems to have invented a crimson that is reserved for rowboats and smoking jackets. And the walnut brown he used for the rat terrier! You are stunned. You close the sketchbook quietly and return to gazing dreamily out the window.
The train wheezes to a stop at Bantry Bay and you shake Basil. The moment you alight from the train, and glance around at the lush, green hills—rugged and jagged and lovely. A lifeless-looking man who resembles a zombie in tails is standing with a sign that says ‘Castle Rackrent’.
“Here’s our monster,” Basil jokes, “Going to take us to Castle Nightmare.”
He’s laughing but you’re suddenly having abdominal cramps. You manage to smile as Basil hands the zombie your suitcases.
Basil has made the choice for you…like it or not, you’re bound for Castle Rackrent. Your next decision will come tomorrow.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose-- Part VIII
“You’re what?” Basil almost yells when you return a few minutes later, paintless and mugless.
“Scared,” you say stubbornly. Your hand rockets to your hip and instinctively you stomp your foot. When Basil finished assessing you with a series of, ‘No, really’s?’ he offers you his arm. His white shirt, thoroughly crapped up with the dirt and grime of centuries, still manages to look as trustworthy as armor in the cellar light. You hook your arm through his and he guides you back up the crumbling steps. You trip and fall a couple of times, complaining about the unevenness when you know very well, you’re still shaking like a newborn deer. Basil can’t resist pausing at the top to introduce you to a saintly tooth and the other microscopic fragments of bone. He delights in taking you back to Chaucer’s England—an England rife with unscrupulous priests selling indulgences and phony minced saints that are nothing more than pestle-ground skeletons of feral animals-- supersedes his desire to document noseless statues. He abandons his theme when he nips into the gift shop to steal you a mug and a packet of ‘The Wives of Henry the VIII’ chocolates.
“This really is more fun than anything else I could have done on my first night,” you admit, biting into Anne Boleyn.
“Can I have Catherine Howard?” he asks politely. “I mean, she’s a minor one, right? I wouldn’t ask for Jane Seymour or Catherine Parr.”
“The most married Queen in England; no, I wouldn’t give you her,” you say, handing over Catherine Howard.
Bertie, the guard, seems relieved when he stumbles upon the two of you. “I saw a lot of activity on the security cameras and I was getting worried. Glad it’s just you, Mr. Maidencroft.
Basil gives Bertie a clap on the back and practically takes Jane Seymour out of your mouth and offers her to Bertie. “No thanks,” he declines, holding up a netted bag of chocolate tuppence he’s apparently also lifted from the gift shop. “Were one of you two wearing a hood a few minutes ago?” he asks, tossing a chocolate coin into his mouth like a tiddley-wink.
“A hood?” you ask, nervously.
“I must have been seeing things, Bertie laughs.
Basil snaps back into efficiency mode and hustles you back downstairs. You begin to share his enthusiasm for the project at about 2:00am while you’re sketching what feels like your thousandth nose hole. In the margins, you begin to paint what you imagine to be the corresponding nose for each of your sketches. You can’t remember when you introduced magenta or apple green to your paintings, but your little studies look fabulous. The highlights are perfect, and the bare, incomplete faces are leaping off the page in wretched despondency. ‘Find my nose!’ they seem to be begging. You give one of the heads a laurel wreath, and the little painting seems to immediately cheer. You give one fellow—a torso really, who’s missing his arms and legs as well as his head—a brown of buttercups and a matching yellow suit that includes prosthetics. You’re getting punchy. What time is it?
Basil is lying beside you, smiling at your sketchbook. His tweed coat is balled up for a pillow. “Shouldn’t that one with no body at all get a Father Christmas hat or something?” He stands up and stretches in an exaggerated manner that reminds you of the Olympians upstairs. The stretch was probably necessary after his long spell on the marble floor. You know Roman dust-bunnies are sticking to your fanny when you finally stand, but it’s too late to care. Basil consults his watch and informs you that you’re train is leaving in five hours. The weight of the universe seems to hit you like a wrecking ball. You’re exhausted and instantly cranky.
There’s not a cab in sight when you emerge from the Museum. You see a girl who might easily be Eliza Doolittle, surrounded by her street folk friends, standing around a fire toasting nuts and tearing violets out of flowerbeds for sale in the morning. You argue as you stroll with Basil, too tired to stride. He insists that he needs you at Rackrent Castle. You argue that you have no clothing, other than what’s on your back, and add that you’re brushing your teeth with what’s almost certainly a borrowed toilet brush.
“So we’ll leave a little later, on the 10:20 train. We’ll be on Princes Street when the shops open, and I’ll buy you whatever you need—out of our money.”
“Basil,” you whine. “This is my vacation. There’s a lot of stuff I want to do. I wanted to go to see the thriller at the Lyceum Theatre.”
“The groundskeeper kills the old lady and hides her head in a hatbox,” Basil says, as you stop in front of the Sleeping Bee. I’ll be here at 8:45 to pick you up!”
You lightly slam the door as theatrically as you can at 3:00am, half-convinced you’re drunk and you imagined the whole escapade. Reality slaps you in the face when you start searching for your suitcase and remember your pajamas, along with everything else are gone. Martin is probably wearing your undies as a hat, laughing as drinking as he auctions off the contents of your suitcases. Somehow, despite your confusion, anger, amusement, worry, exhilaration, fear, anticipation, panic, dread, and general excitement—you fall asleep.
Noses and flat faces swirl like jagged puzzle pieces through your dreams. Cracks and crevices align, and the Mr. Potato Head of your dreams turns into an arrestingly handsome travertine god. A four-eyed monster appears behind him, with a spiky mace for a tail that it pounds against the trembling earth. An ogre is hiding atop the four-eyed monster, resting in the hump of its scaly bulk as if it were a camel driver. The ogre wields a flaming sword in each hand and laughs manically each time the monster thumps his mace tail and agitates the whole world. Your travertine god whirls around quickly, and cracks his stone knuckles. With one bionic movement, your travertine god punches the monster’s face. The monster rolls over atop the (not laughing) ogre and crushes him to death. The ogre gets skewered on the monster’s spiked tail and they both roll off the edge of the horizon like a monster-ogre kebab. Your travertine god turns back to you, flashes a smile—his teeth are gold for some unlikely reason—he winks and adjusts his nose before leaping into the sky.
You wake from your dream, decide that things have gotten out of hand, and descend into the breakfast room. You have no intention of going away with Basil, so it doesn’t matter if you’re late. There’s no such thing as ‘late’ on vacation anyway! Choose ‘A’.
You wake from your dream and realize you are in this thing nose-deep. The least you can do is be semi-clean for your spree on Princes Street—you’d better hop in the shower and get going! Choose ‘B’.
“Scared,” you say stubbornly. Your hand rockets to your hip and instinctively you stomp your foot. When Basil finished assessing you with a series of, ‘No, really’s?’ he offers you his arm. His white shirt, thoroughly crapped up with the dirt and grime of centuries, still manages to look as trustworthy as armor in the cellar light. You hook your arm through his and he guides you back up the crumbling steps. You trip and fall a couple of times, complaining about the unevenness when you know very well, you’re still shaking like a newborn deer. Basil can’t resist pausing at the top to introduce you to a saintly tooth and the other microscopic fragments of bone. He delights in taking you back to Chaucer’s England—an England rife with unscrupulous priests selling indulgences and phony minced saints that are nothing more than pestle-ground skeletons of feral animals-- supersedes his desire to document noseless statues. He abandons his theme when he nips into the gift shop to steal you a mug and a packet of ‘The Wives of Henry the VIII’ chocolates.
“This really is more fun than anything else I could have done on my first night,” you admit, biting into Anne Boleyn.
“Can I have Catherine Howard?” he asks politely. “I mean, she’s a minor one, right? I wouldn’t ask for Jane Seymour or Catherine Parr.”
“The most married Queen in England; no, I wouldn’t give you her,” you say, handing over Catherine Howard.
Bertie, the guard, seems relieved when he stumbles upon the two of you. “I saw a lot of activity on the security cameras and I was getting worried. Glad it’s just you, Mr. Maidencroft.
Basil gives Bertie a clap on the back and practically takes Jane Seymour out of your mouth and offers her to Bertie. “No thanks,” he declines, holding up a netted bag of chocolate tuppence he’s apparently also lifted from the gift shop. “Were one of you two wearing a hood a few minutes ago?” he asks, tossing a chocolate coin into his mouth like a tiddley-wink.
“A hood?” you ask, nervously.
“I must have been seeing things, Bertie laughs.
Basil snaps back into efficiency mode and hustles you back downstairs. You begin to share his enthusiasm for the project at about 2:00am while you’re sketching what feels like your thousandth nose hole. In the margins, you begin to paint what you imagine to be the corresponding nose for each of your sketches. You can’t remember when you introduced magenta or apple green to your paintings, but your little studies look fabulous. The highlights are perfect, and the bare, incomplete faces are leaping off the page in wretched despondency. ‘Find my nose!’ they seem to be begging. You give one of the heads a laurel wreath, and the little painting seems to immediately cheer. You give one fellow—a torso really, who’s missing his arms and legs as well as his head—a brown of buttercups and a matching yellow suit that includes prosthetics. You’re getting punchy. What time is it?
Basil is lying beside you, smiling at your sketchbook. His tweed coat is balled up for a pillow. “Shouldn’t that one with no body at all get a Father Christmas hat or something?” He stands up and stretches in an exaggerated manner that reminds you of the Olympians upstairs. The stretch was probably necessary after his long spell on the marble floor. You know Roman dust-bunnies are sticking to your fanny when you finally stand, but it’s too late to care. Basil consults his watch and informs you that you’re train is leaving in five hours. The weight of the universe seems to hit you like a wrecking ball. You’re exhausted and instantly cranky.
There’s not a cab in sight when you emerge from the Museum. You see a girl who might easily be Eliza Doolittle, surrounded by her street folk friends, standing around a fire toasting nuts and tearing violets out of flowerbeds for sale in the morning. You argue as you stroll with Basil, too tired to stride. He insists that he needs you at Rackrent Castle. You argue that you have no clothing, other than what’s on your back, and add that you’re brushing your teeth with what’s almost certainly a borrowed toilet brush.
“So we’ll leave a little later, on the 10:20 train. We’ll be on Princes Street when the shops open, and I’ll buy you whatever you need—out of our money.”
“Basil,” you whine. “This is my vacation. There’s a lot of stuff I want to do. I wanted to go to see the thriller at the Lyceum Theatre.”
“The groundskeeper kills the old lady and hides her head in a hatbox,” Basil says, as you stop in front of the Sleeping Bee. I’ll be here at 8:45 to pick you up!”
You lightly slam the door as theatrically as you can at 3:00am, half-convinced you’re drunk and you imagined the whole escapade. Reality slaps you in the face when you start searching for your suitcase and remember your pajamas, along with everything else are gone. Martin is probably wearing your undies as a hat, laughing as drinking as he auctions off the contents of your suitcases. Somehow, despite your confusion, anger, amusement, worry, exhilaration, fear, anticipation, panic, dread, and general excitement—you fall asleep.
Noses and flat faces swirl like jagged puzzle pieces through your dreams. Cracks and crevices align, and the Mr. Potato Head of your dreams turns into an arrestingly handsome travertine god. A four-eyed monster appears behind him, with a spiky mace for a tail that it pounds against the trembling earth. An ogre is hiding atop the four-eyed monster, resting in the hump of its scaly bulk as if it were a camel driver. The ogre wields a flaming sword in each hand and laughs manically each time the monster thumps his mace tail and agitates the whole world. Your travertine god whirls around quickly, and cracks his stone knuckles. With one bionic movement, your travertine god punches the monster’s face. The monster rolls over atop the (not laughing) ogre and crushes him to death. The ogre gets skewered on the monster’s spiked tail and they both roll off the edge of the horizon like a monster-ogre kebab. Your travertine god turns back to you, flashes a smile—his teeth are gold for some unlikely reason—he winks and adjusts his nose before leaping into the sky.
You wake from your dream, decide that things have gotten out of hand, and descend into the breakfast room. You have no intention of going away with Basil, so it doesn’t matter if you’re late. There’s no such thing as ‘late’ on vacation anyway! Choose ‘A’.
You wake from your dream and realize you are in this thing nose-deep. The least you can do is be semi-clean for your spree on Princes Street—you’d better hop in the shower and get going! Choose ‘B’.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose - Part VII
The Storeroom
The further down you go, the more you can relate to his Howard Carter and what he must have smelt and felt when he was breaking into King Tut’s tomb. Yourself and the person who made the giant tread marks in the dust before you seem to be the only two people who have used this stairway perhaps since the ancient Egyptians. You let your little felt clogs fall atop the fresh treads. As you wind your way down, one hand gripping the rickety railing, the light gets stronger. When you arrive at the foot of the stairs, a beam of swinging light hits you flat in the face and pins you to the wall.
“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice sounding overly emotional and unstable.
The light leaves you and begins to lick at the corners of a distant wall.
“It’s me, of course.”
“Of course,” you sigh. You are so thankful to hear Basil’s voice again—and to breathe again—you can hear your heartbeat in your eardrums.
“Who did you think I was?” he asks, “Ramses? Or a middle-aged Tut?”
“Of course not,” you bluff, running in the direction of the light and gluing yourself to him like a mosquito on flypaper. “It’s just that I was calling you for ages.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t find Bertie, but I remembered there were back stairs and managed to find them. You shouldn’t have followed me down; these steps aren’t safe.”
I could see the shaft of light running up and down over my body as if he were assuring himself that I was undamaged. Once your eyes have un-dilated, you begin to take in the stacks of masterpieces piled up in rows, and the cobwebbed statues grouped en masse, like a frozen army. You make a grotesque gargling noise when you think you spot a Van Gogh. In the dark, you’re sure you see a whole field of mustard-colored sunflowers beneath skies that resemble indigo tornados. You wrestle Basil for the flashlight and wrench at his wrist, a little too aggressively as you force his hand to illuminate the canvas.
“That’s a copy!” he scoffs, “And those little nails are hurting me.”
“Sorry, you frown, realizes the brushwork was all wrong.
He shines the light on your face for quite a long time, and you think you can hear him chuckling to himself. Suddenly, the light makes a complete revolution around the room, which is vaster and more crammed with art than you had imagined. The beam stops on a scaffolding, canopied in webs and veiling a row of alabaster gods. The light moves from face to face as busy spiders hurry up nostrils and into ass cracks to stay hidden. Basil makes a clucking noise as though he’s expressing his disappointment at the sight of so many noses.
“Look here, Darby!” Basil yelps. “You see this oddity?” He’s shining his light on a sickly-looking bird with the head of a crow and the body of a plover. On first glance the webbed feet look like they might belong to any waterfowl, but on second glance, you’re sure they’re wax.
“What is it?” you ask.
“It’s the Bare-Fronted Hoodwink,” he laughs.
“It’s all stitched together with fake feet!” you object hotly.
“Right you are,” he says nodding. “This museum is known for its hoaxes. Every once in a while they put up a prank exhibit, like this one. They displayed the Hookwink on April Fool’s Day, 1975.”
“That’s pretty funny,” you laugh too, craning in to look at the taxidermist’s Frankenstein.
“Where’s the blinking Roman emperors?” Basil asks, aloud. “Rackrent keeps bragging about the length of her nose. That’d be the place to look.” He moves the light from statue to statue, commenting on the length and width of each nose. Suddenly, the situation strikes you as completely absurd. You cease your giggling when you realize that Basil is battle-ramming a wooden door with his head. Its wood wormed planks finally splinter.
“Was that really necessary?” your mother asks, using your body as a host. Instead of answering, Basil succeeds in annihilating a tiny rusted hook, the final security measure on the door. You’re in too much of a dither to speak. The room is crammed with cream-colored statues that might be travertine. At a glance, you can see an array of deformations; plenty of missing fingers, heads, noses, ears, toes, genitals…Eurkea! You can hear jackpot bells ringing just as surely as if you were standing in the middle of a casino instead of a hallowed art graveyard.
“Where’s your paints?” he pants, suddenly reverent.
“They’re your paints,” you argue, realizing you left them upstairs with the Olympians. “I cracked up the mug by accident.”
“Well, grab another mug from the gift shop. And hurry!” Easy for him to sound so excited when he’s telling you to rob the gift shop. His passion, radiating through the dark room with the energy of the sun, makes you feel too embarrassed to refuse. How can you say you’re too scared to go back upstairs?
“Be right back,” you say instead.
No decision to be made here... not until the next installment!
The further down you go, the more you can relate to his Howard Carter and what he must have smelt and felt when he was breaking into King Tut’s tomb. Yourself and the person who made the giant tread marks in the dust before you seem to be the only two people who have used this stairway perhaps since the ancient Egyptians. You let your little felt clogs fall atop the fresh treads. As you wind your way down, one hand gripping the rickety railing, the light gets stronger. When you arrive at the foot of the stairs, a beam of swinging light hits you flat in the face and pins you to the wall.
“Who’s there?” you ask, your voice sounding overly emotional and unstable.
The light leaves you and begins to lick at the corners of a distant wall.
“It’s me, of course.”
“Of course,” you sigh. You are so thankful to hear Basil’s voice again—and to breathe again—you can hear your heartbeat in your eardrums.
“Who did you think I was?” he asks, “Ramses? Or a middle-aged Tut?”
“Of course not,” you bluff, running in the direction of the light and gluing yourself to him like a mosquito on flypaper. “It’s just that I was calling you for ages.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t find Bertie, but I remembered there were back stairs and managed to find them. You shouldn’t have followed me down; these steps aren’t safe.”
I could see the shaft of light running up and down over my body as if he were assuring himself that I was undamaged. Once your eyes have un-dilated, you begin to take in the stacks of masterpieces piled up in rows, and the cobwebbed statues grouped en masse, like a frozen army. You make a grotesque gargling noise when you think you spot a Van Gogh. In the dark, you’re sure you see a whole field of mustard-colored sunflowers beneath skies that resemble indigo tornados. You wrestle Basil for the flashlight and wrench at his wrist, a little too aggressively as you force his hand to illuminate the canvas.
“That’s a copy!” he scoffs, “And those little nails are hurting me.”
“Sorry, you frown, realizes the brushwork was all wrong.
He shines the light on your face for quite a long time, and you think you can hear him chuckling to himself. Suddenly, the light makes a complete revolution around the room, which is vaster and more crammed with art than you had imagined. The beam stops on a scaffolding, canopied in webs and veiling a row of alabaster gods. The light moves from face to face as busy spiders hurry up nostrils and into ass cracks to stay hidden. Basil makes a clucking noise as though he’s expressing his disappointment at the sight of so many noses.
“Look here, Darby!” Basil yelps. “You see this oddity?” He’s shining his light on a sickly-looking bird with the head of a crow and the body of a plover. On first glance the webbed feet look like they might belong to any waterfowl, but on second glance, you’re sure they’re wax.
“What is it?” you ask.
“It’s the Bare-Fronted Hoodwink,” he laughs.
“It’s all stitched together with fake feet!” you object hotly.
“Right you are,” he says nodding. “This museum is known for its hoaxes. Every once in a while they put up a prank exhibit, like this one. They displayed the Hookwink on April Fool’s Day, 1975.”
“That’s pretty funny,” you laugh too, craning in to look at the taxidermist’s Frankenstein.
“Where’s the blinking Roman emperors?” Basil asks, aloud. “Rackrent keeps bragging about the length of her nose. That’d be the place to look.” He moves the light from statue to statue, commenting on the length and width of each nose. Suddenly, the situation strikes you as completely absurd. You cease your giggling when you realize that Basil is battle-ramming a wooden door with his head. Its wood wormed planks finally splinter.
“Was that really necessary?” your mother asks, using your body as a host. Instead of answering, Basil succeeds in annihilating a tiny rusted hook, the final security measure on the door. You’re in too much of a dither to speak. The room is crammed with cream-colored statues that might be travertine. At a glance, you can see an array of deformations; plenty of missing fingers, heads, noses, ears, toes, genitals…Eurkea! You can hear jackpot bells ringing just as surely as if you were standing in the middle of a casino instead of a hallowed art graveyard.
“Where’s your paints?” he pants, suddenly reverent.
“They’re your paints,” you argue, realizing you left them upstairs with the Olympians. “I cracked up the mug by accident.”
“Well, grab another mug from the gift shop. And hurry!” Easy for him to sound so excited when he’s telling you to rob the gift shop. His passion, radiating through the dark room with the energy of the sun, makes you feel too embarrassed to refuse. How can you say you’re too scared to go back upstairs?
“Be right back,” you say instead.
No decision to be made here... not until the next installment!
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose-- Part VI
To the Royal Museum
You feel like a fish swimming upstream as you climb the steps of the Royal Museum behind Basil. A throng of bespectacled individuals pour out the doors and into the Edinburgh night as you and your mysterious archaeologist hurry up to the guards. Basil points to the identification tag clipped to his tweed jacket and, sounding very Scottish, offers a, “Guid eenin!” to the guard as you pass.
“Hey Mukker,” a well-dressed man shouts, meeting you inside the door. Basil shakes hands with the man and accidentally introduces you as Margaret. You pull the small sketchpad out of your purse—thank goodness there are still some empty pages in the back. You try to look as official as possible while Basil wraps things up with the curator. Although you can see yourself performing cartwheels through the empty wings and pawing the sarcophagus cases the moment you’re left alone, you try to suppress these ideas and look as academic as Basil.
“Guid cheerio the nou!” the curator says, and waves a “Good night, lass,” to you.
The heavy wooden door heaves shut and Basil turns to you, dangling the keys in front of you like a red flag to a bull. An icy surge of excitement pumps straight from your heart into all of your electrified limbs.
“Do you always have carte blanche to mess around in museums after closing?”
“Of course,” Basil blushes. “I mean, I’m a well-known person. They know I’m not going to start doing cartwheels in here.”
Now you blush. Is he also a mind reader? You wonder as you follow him through a labyrinth of hall. Portraits of men in armor and haughty-looking women lazing holding books or pointing to birdcages line the walls. You walk beneath the skeleton of a blue whale, its monstrous shadow looming over you like an eclipse. The way Basil rushes through the Egyptian wing annoys you. Aren’t there a few spare moments for betraying the curator’s trust? Gigantically large panther-headed women and kings with monkey paws line the walls. The partial light of the closed halls makes the massive statues look ominous. You clutch your sketchbook to your chest and realize you’re holding your breath.
“What’s this?” you ask, pointing at a Plexiglas case containing a darling sheep that looks to be made of a million white cotton balls.
“That’s Dolly,” Basil pauses. “You remember – the famous cloned sheep?”
You do remember. Your heart starts beating again. So it’s not a tea room or a bookstall that’s got you bobbing in that tide of holiday feeling-- it’s a dark, dusty museum and the promise of noses. Will wonders never cease? Before you have time to decide whether wonders do indeed ever cease, you hear a cascade of footsteps coming toward you through the darknesss.
“Evening, Mr. Maidencroft,” a guard says, touching the rim on an invisible hat.
“Evening, Bertie,” Basil boomerangs back, hurrying into the Greek wing. “Blast it!” Basil laments, “These Olympians all have their noses!”
You can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever uttered that particular sentence before.
“Let’s try to Assyrians and Persians,” he suggests. “One of them might be a bloody leper.”
You soon find yourself sketching the face of a devilish-looking Pan with hell horns, and hoofs, and a weather-beaten lady holding an arrow in each hand and wearing a trumpet skirt that looks like a cheese-grater. Basil appears with a mug of water he’s procured from Bertie, the guard, and pulls a small watercolor kit from his backpack.
“Here, use this,” he offers.
“You paint?” you ask him.
“Not really,” he says distractedly. He’s quite busy looking over your sketches. “You are a wizard,” he coos, leaning furtively over your shoulder. He smells like cedar and old books; a combination you find far from repellent.
“What do you think of this fellow?” he asks, pointing at your drawing of a helmeted, albeit nude, soldier who’s holding his enemy’s head by the petrified curls. Neither the conqueror nor the conquered have noses.
“It’s a two-for-one special,” you smile, sharing his excitement.
Basil tells you he venturing off to find Bertie again. He’s suddenly itching to get into the storeroom where the museum keeps all of the pieces that aren’t currently on display. He’s works himself into a lather telling you about all of the treasures the museums are hiding in quarantine while the whole world is visiting the Mona Lisa, or Night Watch for the umpteenth time. Frustrated, he clip-clops off into the darkness of the long hall and you turn back to the severed head. A noise behind you startles you, and you kick the mug of water over. It lays broken into shards, while rivulets of colored water run across the white marble floor.
You run in the direction you last saw Basil and shout his name with forced calm. No response. Just the mocking echo of your own voice, and another noise just like the one that scared the mug into shards. You don’t realize you are backing up until you collide with a stone discus player who, despite his centuries of perfectly-poised athleticism, seems to be thinking of toppling over discus-over-teakettle.
You remove your shoes and sprint unto the tunnel of shadows leading you to the next room. This room is full of medieval statues-- mostly painted saints who look like they’ve stepped down from the eaves of country churches. Some are posed like figureheads, leaning forward like flying buttresses with their faded robes billowing beneath them. A glass case in the center of the room is lit from above by iron chandeliers that look like they were made for fat, pillar candles. You can see that the case holds reliquaries, bits of saints’ bones. A lifelike metal hand with a tiny, hinged window frames a yellow shard alleged to be a bone of Saint Francis of Assisi. A simpler, mirrored box beside it houses a rotten old tooth. The sight of these items does nothing to quiet your hammering heart. You hold your breath and run past the hovering saints, imagining their painted, wooden eyeballs following you.
“Basil!” you shout, a little less controlled. “Basil, where are you?”
You think you hear footsteps in an adjoining room and turn to listen. It’s then that you notice a small wooden door-- open, and revealing a twisting set of stone steps. Light is coming from the floor below. Another footstep behind you.
If you’re sure you heard footsteps – and you don’t think it’s a reanimated panther-faced mummy—retrace your steps and find the exit. You’ve had enough fun for one night. Basil will have to find some other nasal specialist. Choose ‘A’.
So, you have a chronic case of the goosebumps—you aren’t going to desert Basil yet. Get your shoes back on and hoof it down those steep, twisting steps… he must be down there, right? Choose ‘B’.
You feel like a fish swimming upstream as you climb the steps of the Royal Museum behind Basil. A throng of bespectacled individuals pour out the doors and into the Edinburgh night as you and your mysterious archaeologist hurry up to the guards. Basil points to the identification tag clipped to his tweed jacket and, sounding very Scottish, offers a, “Guid eenin!” to the guard as you pass.
“Hey Mukker,” a well-dressed man shouts, meeting you inside the door. Basil shakes hands with the man and accidentally introduces you as Margaret. You pull the small sketchpad out of your purse—thank goodness there are still some empty pages in the back. You try to look as official as possible while Basil wraps things up with the curator. Although you can see yourself performing cartwheels through the empty wings and pawing the sarcophagus cases the moment you’re left alone, you try to suppress these ideas and look as academic as Basil.
“Guid cheerio the nou!” the curator says, and waves a “Good night, lass,” to you.
The heavy wooden door heaves shut and Basil turns to you, dangling the keys in front of you like a red flag to a bull. An icy surge of excitement pumps straight from your heart into all of your electrified limbs.
“Do you always have carte blanche to mess around in museums after closing?”
“Of course,” Basil blushes. “I mean, I’m a well-known person. They know I’m not going to start doing cartwheels in here.”
Now you blush. Is he also a mind reader? You wonder as you follow him through a labyrinth of hall. Portraits of men in armor and haughty-looking women lazing holding books or pointing to birdcages line the walls. You walk beneath the skeleton of a blue whale, its monstrous shadow looming over you like an eclipse. The way Basil rushes through the Egyptian wing annoys you. Aren’t there a few spare moments for betraying the curator’s trust? Gigantically large panther-headed women and kings with monkey paws line the walls. The partial light of the closed halls makes the massive statues look ominous. You clutch your sketchbook to your chest and realize you’re holding your breath.
“What’s this?” you ask, pointing at a Plexiglas case containing a darling sheep that looks to be made of a million white cotton balls.
“That’s Dolly,” Basil pauses. “You remember – the famous cloned sheep?”
You do remember. Your heart starts beating again. So it’s not a tea room or a bookstall that’s got you bobbing in that tide of holiday feeling-- it’s a dark, dusty museum and the promise of noses. Will wonders never cease? Before you have time to decide whether wonders do indeed ever cease, you hear a cascade of footsteps coming toward you through the darknesss.
“Evening, Mr. Maidencroft,” a guard says, touching the rim on an invisible hat.
“Evening, Bertie,” Basil boomerangs back, hurrying into the Greek wing. “Blast it!” Basil laments, “These Olympians all have their noses!”
You can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever uttered that particular sentence before.
“Let’s try to Assyrians and Persians,” he suggests. “One of them might be a bloody leper.”
You soon find yourself sketching the face of a devilish-looking Pan with hell horns, and hoofs, and a weather-beaten lady holding an arrow in each hand and wearing a trumpet skirt that looks like a cheese-grater. Basil appears with a mug of water he’s procured from Bertie, the guard, and pulls a small watercolor kit from his backpack.
“Here, use this,” he offers.
“You paint?” you ask him.
“Not really,” he says distractedly. He’s quite busy looking over your sketches. “You are a wizard,” he coos, leaning furtively over your shoulder. He smells like cedar and old books; a combination you find far from repellent.
“What do you think of this fellow?” he asks, pointing at your drawing of a helmeted, albeit nude, soldier who’s holding his enemy’s head by the petrified curls. Neither the conqueror nor the conquered have noses.
“It’s a two-for-one special,” you smile, sharing his excitement.
Basil tells you he venturing off to find Bertie again. He’s suddenly itching to get into the storeroom where the museum keeps all of the pieces that aren’t currently on display. He’s works himself into a lather telling you about all of the treasures the museums are hiding in quarantine while the whole world is visiting the Mona Lisa, or Night Watch for the umpteenth time. Frustrated, he clip-clops off into the darkness of the long hall and you turn back to the severed head. A noise behind you startles you, and you kick the mug of water over. It lays broken into shards, while rivulets of colored water run across the white marble floor.
You run in the direction you last saw Basil and shout his name with forced calm. No response. Just the mocking echo of your own voice, and another noise just like the one that scared the mug into shards. You don’t realize you are backing up until you collide with a stone discus player who, despite his centuries of perfectly-poised athleticism, seems to be thinking of toppling over discus-over-teakettle.
You remove your shoes and sprint unto the tunnel of shadows leading you to the next room. This room is full of medieval statues-- mostly painted saints who look like they’ve stepped down from the eaves of country churches. Some are posed like figureheads, leaning forward like flying buttresses with their faded robes billowing beneath them. A glass case in the center of the room is lit from above by iron chandeliers that look like they were made for fat, pillar candles. You can see that the case holds reliquaries, bits of saints’ bones. A lifelike metal hand with a tiny, hinged window frames a yellow shard alleged to be a bone of Saint Francis of Assisi. A simpler, mirrored box beside it houses a rotten old tooth. The sight of these items does nothing to quiet your hammering heart. You hold your breath and run past the hovering saints, imagining their painted, wooden eyeballs following you.
“Basil!” you shout, a little less controlled. “Basil, where are you?”
You think you hear footsteps in an adjoining room and turn to listen. It’s then that you notice a small wooden door-- open, and revealing a twisting set of stone steps. Light is coming from the floor below. Another footstep behind you.
If you’re sure you heard footsteps – and you don’t think it’s a reanimated panther-faced mummy—retrace your steps and find the exit. You’ve had enough fun for one night. Basil will have to find some other nasal specialist. Choose ‘A’.
So, you have a chronic case of the goosebumps—you aren’t going to desert Basil yet. Get your shoes back on and hoof it down those steep, twisting steps… he must be down there, right? Choose ‘B’.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
A Highland Fling this Cocktail Friday!
While Wouter and Obe are on holiday in Edinburgh, the rest of us decided to have our own tiny taste of Scotland this Friday. We created drinks with a Scottish theme--- all of which were so delicious they nearly DID transport us to that magical place...
The first drink was an easy,light spin on a shandy.. Called the 'Nessie's Revenge' this is a punch drink served in a bowl that's meant to represent Loch Ness. And, lucky for us, Nessie is making a rare appearance! (I stitched Nessie out of some snakeskin tablecloth material I found, and although she had quite a bit of trouble floating, I think she was nonetheless suitably ferocious).
Nessie has a straw running up her (not even sure anatomically what it is) that facilitates sipping:
The Nessie's Revenge:
(plan according to the size of your punchbowl)
- approx. 2 pints beer
- approx. liter 7-up (or ginger ale)(as much as there is beer)
- 2 ounces blue curacao
The next drink was a wonderful surprise--tastier than I could have ever imagined! The 'Highland Thistle' is a lovely, creamy, light purple drink with a bite. It is absolutely perfect as a dessert drink or for people who just love creamy drinks. It's not overly sweet and, strangely, not overly heavy. I forgot to but thistles to garnish it, but I think it'd be even more festive with a thistle riding out of it.
Judith further improved on the cocktail by adding freckles of blackcurrant juice with a syringe (yes, there's a doctor in the house). You could leave it polka-dotted or swirl it into a more marbleized effect.
The Highland Thistle
- 2 ounces white creme de cacao
- 1 ounce black vodka (which is actually purple)
- 2 ounces heavy cream
- shake over ice
And last but not least... another CREAMY wonderment, which was just as smooth and delicious as the Highland Thistle, but with a kick of Drambuie. This was Arjen's brilliant invention:
The Caledonian Kiss
- 1 ounce Drambuie
- 1 ounce heavy cream
- stir in a tumbler
- ice is optional
And just because it was a Scottish night, we had to break out into a brawl...
And some cocktailing photos of Obe and Wouter actually IN EDINBURGH this weekend...
Your trip inspired our drinks!
(plan according to the size of your punchbowl)
- approx. 2 pints beer
- approx. liter 7-up (or ginger ale)(as much as there is beer)
- 2 ounces blue curacao
The next drink was a wonderful surprise--tastier than I could have ever imagined! The 'Highland Thistle' is a lovely, creamy, light purple drink with a bite. It is absolutely perfect as a dessert drink or for people who just love creamy drinks. It's not overly sweet and, strangely, not overly heavy. I forgot to but thistles to garnish it, but I think it'd be even more festive with a thistle riding out of it.
- 2 ounces white creme de cacao
- 1 ounce black vodka (which is actually purple)
- 2 ounces heavy cream
- shake over ice
And last but not least... another CREAMY wonderment, which was just as smooth and delicious as the Highland Thistle, but with a kick of Drambuie. This was Arjen's brilliant invention:
The Caledonian Kiss
- 1 ounce Drambuie
- 1 ounce heavy cream
- stir in a tumbler
- ice is optional
And some cocktailing photos of Obe and Wouter actually IN EDINBURGH this weekend...
Friday, April 8, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose... Part V
The Proposal
“A painter? Shite!”
You nearly fall off the back of your stool, terrified by his outburst.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it quite like that,” he bumbles. “A painter?” His face is twisted in disgust.
You nod uncertainly.
“A painter,” he repeats, his brow clearing. “A painter…” He’s clearly rethinking his position, his brain trying to spin a booger into gold somehow. “Well, you’ll do,” he says unsurely. You can paint. That’ll help. I assume you can draw too?”
You nod. “Of course.”
Basil sighs with relief. “Righty ho then, we can go now.” He stands suddenly, tosses a handful of pound coins onto the table and reaches for his tweed jacket.
“What?” you ask, wondering is Basil is not only eccentric, but insane. “What do you mean we can go now?”
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says nervously, reclaiming his seat and reaching across the table for your hand. “Please forgive me. This whole thing has been a terrible shock. Not that you’re terrible,” he qualifies.
“Yeah, it has been a little shocking. Maybe surreal is a better word,” you suggest. “I just came to tell you your note was waylaid. I’m just a girl who checked into her hotel a few hours ago and found a very weird note.” You glance up and find Basil’s eyes on you, warm and full of good humor.
“I understand. I do. But, Margaret, I mean Darby,” he squeezes your hand, “I need you. How can I convince you to come with me?” He consults his watch and appears all the more panicked as a result.
“Where am I expected to go?” you ask with some amusement.
“To the noses, of course.” Your eyebrows dance sarcastically and Basil revises his answer. “To the Royal Museum… they’re closing at 8:00 and then we’re going into the sculpture wing to study some noses. It’s all arranged.”
“Noses?” you laugh.
“Yes,” Basil nods, looking most earnest. “Noses that have cracked off statues, and statues that have lost they’re noses.”
“Are we matching noses to statues?” You ask, trying hard to bring the conversation to a boil.
“Sort of. We’re studying noses and noselessness in general, because first thing tomorrow, we have to leave for Rackrent Castle and try to figure out where Lady Rackrent’s nose belongs.”
The expression on your face must be reflecting your absolute stupor because Basil responds by burying his face in his hands.
“Is Lady Rackrent’s nose currently someplace other than the center of her face?” you ask.
Basil bursts into a peel of laughter and rocks back in his booth. “Blimey! Why does this have to be such a mess?” Once he recovers himself, he swigs down the last of his lager and pushes the remains of his pastry across to you. “Okay. Lady Rackrent found a travertine nose under a loose stone in the Castle. She has no idea how and when it got there, but she’s hired me, on a lark, to solve the mystery of this thing. It is, indeed, by all accounts a very fine nose, and might be of some importance.”
“Where is this Castle Rackrent?”
“In the Highlands, of course.”
“Can you stop saying ‘of course’ as if any of this is logical or intuitive? And what exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Help me. Document the noses we find study, and the statues without noses. Draw them-- paint them, or what have you. We can document them that way, and try to figure this thing out. Your artistic ability may prove to be just as useful as another archeologist’s opinion. Darby, we stand to make some real money. What do you say?”
You would really rather keep your nose out of Basil’s problems, and sniff out a good Cornish Pasty instead. How will you ever get your medieval moats, sparkling lakes, and tea rooms if you’re off larking around some drafty castle in the Highlands? Chose 'A' for goodness sake.
And yet, the idea of being allowed inside the Museum after closing to sniff out some stone noses has a certain charm. And nobody will elbow-patches as scuffed as Basil can be a confidence trickster. At the very least, you might end up with an exhibit of nose studies for your next show. Chose 'B'.
“A painter? Shite!”
You nearly fall off the back of your stool, terrified by his outburst.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean it quite like that,” he bumbles. “A painter?” His face is twisted in disgust.
You nod uncertainly.
“A painter,” he repeats, his brow clearing. “A painter…” He’s clearly rethinking his position, his brain trying to spin a booger into gold somehow. “Well, you’ll do,” he says unsurely. You can paint. That’ll help. I assume you can draw too?”
You nod. “Of course.”
Basil sighs with relief. “Righty ho then, we can go now.” He stands suddenly, tosses a handful of pound coins onto the table and reaches for his tweed jacket.
“What?” you ask, wondering is Basil is not only eccentric, but insane. “What do you mean we can go now?”
“Oh, sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says nervously, reclaiming his seat and reaching across the table for your hand. “Please forgive me. This whole thing has been a terrible shock. Not that you’re terrible,” he qualifies.
“Yeah, it has been a little shocking. Maybe surreal is a better word,” you suggest. “I just came to tell you your note was waylaid. I’m just a girl who checked into her hotel a few hours ago and found a very weird note.” You glance up and find Basil’s eyes on you, warm and full of good humor.
“I understand. I do. But, Margaret, I mean Darby,” he squeezes your hand, “I need you. How can I convince you to come with me?” He consults his watch and appears all the more panicked as a result.
“Where am I expected to go?” you ask with some amusement.
“To the noses, of course.” Your eyebrows dance sarcastically and Basil revises his answer. “To the Royal Museum… they’re closing at 8:00 and then we’re going into the sculpture wing to study some noses. It’s all arranged.”
“Noses?” you laugh.
“Yes,” Basil nods, looking most earnest. “Noses that have cracked off statues, and statues that have lost they’re noses.”
“Are we matching noses to statues?” You ask, trying hard to bring the conversation to a boil.
“Sort of. We’re studying noses and noselessness in general, because first thing tomorrow, we have to leave for Rackrent Castle and try to figure out where Lady Rackrent’s nose belongs.”
The expression on your face must be reflecting your absolute stupor because Basil responds by burying his face in his hands.
“Is Lady Rackrent’s nose currently someplace other than the center of her face?” you ask.
Basil bursts into a peel of laughter and rocks back in his booth. “Blimey! Why does this have to be such a mess?” Once he recovers himself, he swigs down the last of his lager and pushes the remains of his pastry across to you. “Okay. Lady Rackrent found a travertine nose under a loose stone in the Castle. She has no idea how and when it got there, but she’s hired me, on a lark, to solve the mystery of this thing. It is, indeed, by all accounts a very fine nose, and might be of some importance.”
“Where is this Castle Rackrent?”
“In the Highlands, of course.”
“Can you stop saying ‘of course’ as if any of this is logical or intuitive? And what exactly are you asking me to do?”
“Help me. Document the noses we find study, and the statues without noses. Draw them-- paint them, or what have you. We can document them that way, and try to figure this thing out. Your artistic ability may prove to be just as useful as another archeologist’s opinion. Darby, we stand to make some real money. What do you say?”
You would really rather keep your nose out of Basil’s problems, and sniff out a good Cornish Pasty instead. How will you ever get your medieval moats, sparkling lakes, and tea rooms if you’re off larking around some drafty castle in the Highlands? Chose 'A' for goodness sake.
And yet, the idea of being allowed inside the Museum after closing to sniff out some stone noses has a certain charm. And nobody will elbow-patches as scuffed as Basil can be a confidence trickster. At the very least, you might end up with an exhibit of nose studies for your next show. Chose 'B'.
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose.... Part IV
The Devil’s Punchbowl
Your ill-timed, but much needed nap, lands you way past seven o’clock. In a tailspin, you take a lukewarm bath in a tub that looks like it doubles as a birdbath, and then climb back in to your clammy travel clothes. Upon request, Mrs. Pringle produces an old toothbrush and an almost-flat tube of toothpaste. It’s entirely possible that the toothbrush was last used to fight a battle against mildew in between the bathroom tiles, but beggars mustn’t be choosers. You exit the Sleeping Bee in a state of extreme mystery and haste…The least you can do is show up at the Devil’s Punchbowl and tell Basil that he’s made a mistake.
Tucked in behind Greyfriars Church, you move along the Old City Wall toward Grassmarket. The evening has settled; darkness hazing the city landscape and making the ancient Wall look like a giant, gaudy reptile, slithering its way in between stone houses and iron lampposts. If Mrs. Pringle’s directions are right, you should be about to come to a greengrocer. There’s the greengrocer. A statue of a man on horseback should be next. There he is-- standing right over you waving a flag. And, wow, that horse is most decidedly male. The Devil Punchbowl is there-- diagonally across the street. An easel chalkboard propped outside recommends the Curry Vindaloo and the Spotted Dick.
You wait for traffic to clear, crinkling the note in your hand as you rehearse what you’re going to say to Basil. The thought enters your mind like a dull dagger, that you have no idea what Basil looks like, and he apparently has never met you. You enter the tiny, dim pub. The stained-glass windows make them look like panes of hardened candy. You’re facing a serious of backs at the bar, most of them curled over a plate of Vindaloo. There’s a single man in the corner with a battered leather backpack at his feet, sitting in a pool of green light, spilling in through the window behind him. He drops the pastry he’s eating and looks up expectantly at you. You think of the crumb smudges all over the note and begin fanning yourself with it as innocuously as you can. The man stands suddenly, his napkin falling to the carpet. He waves you over, working his arm like the sail of a windmill.
“Margaret?” he states, reaching out to shake hands.
“Darby, I’m afraid,” you reply sheepishly.
Thoroughly confused, he points toward the note in your hand and insists, “No, you’re Margaret. You’re American, and you’re Margaret.”
Mild alarm is prickling your skin, and you back up slowly. “No, I found your note when I got into your room, but I’m not Margaret. I’m Darby. I just thought I’d better come and let you know that Margaret didn’t get your message. Darby did. And it sounded extremely urgent…and important…” You frown, fairly exhausted from delivering the bad news.
Basil, his mouth still hanging open like a leaf-top desk, finally sinks back onto the upholstered booth. “It is urgent. And important,” he mutters, looking dazed and wounded. “How am I ever going to manage this on my own?”
He looks up at you and for the first time you register his appearance: long, dark eyelashes surrounding light blue eyes, a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up sloppily. A rich, tweed jacket, reeking of intellectual superiority is balled up beside him, its suede elbow-pads stiff with indignation.
“You wouldn’t happen to be an archaeologist?” he asks hopefully.
“No,” you croak, feeling utterly useless. You look away, at the row of backs, still shoveling in curry and washing it down with lager, and wonder if everyone else is an archaeologist. “I’m just a painter,” you admit, with shame.
At the moment, you are frozen but fascinated. There's not a thing to do, not a move to make, until you re-animate in a few hours. Part V (The Proposal) will come tonight...
Your ill-timed, but much needed nap, lands you way past seven o’clock. In a tailspin, you take a lukewarm bath in a tub that looks like it doubles as a birdbath, and then climb back in to your clammy travel clothes. Upon request, Mrs. Pringle produces an old toothbrush and an almost-flat tube of toothpaste. It’s entirely possible that the toothbrush was last used to fight a battle against mildew in between the bathroom tiles, but beggars mustn’t be choosers. You exit the Sleeping Bee in a state of extreme mystery and haste…The least you can do is show up at the Devil’s Punchbowl and tell Basil that he’s made a mistake.
Tucked in behind Greyfriars Church, you move along the Old City Wall toward Grassmarket. The evening has settled; darkness hazing the city landscape and making the ancient Wall look like a giant, gaudy reptile, slithering its way in between stone houses and iron lampposts. If Mrs. Pringle’s directions are right, you should be about to come to a greengrocer. There’s the greengrocer. A statue of a man on horseback should be next. There he is-- standing right over you waving a flag. And, wow, that horse is most decidedly male. The Devil Punchbowl is there-- diagonally across the street. An easel chalkboard propped outside recommends the Curry Vindaloo and the Spotted Dick.
You wait for traffic to clear, crinkling the note in your hand as you rehearse what you’re going to say to Basil. The thought enters your mind like a dull dagger, that you have no idea what Basil looks like, and he apparently has never met you. You enter the tiny, dim pub. The stained-glass windows make them look like panes of hardened candy. You’re facing a serious of backs at the bar, most of them curled over a plate of Vindaloo. There’s a single man in the corner with a battered leather backpack at his feet, sitting in a pool of green light, spilling in through the window behind him. He drops the pastry he’s eating and looks up expectantly at you. You think of the crumb smudges all over the note and begin fanning yourself with it as innocuously as you can. The man stands suddenly, his napkin falling to the carpet. He waves you over, working his arm like the sail of a windmill.
“Margaret?” he states, reaching out to shake hands.
“Darby, I’m afraid,” you reply sheepishly.
Thoroughly confused, he points toward the note in your hand and insists, “No, you’re Margaret. You’re American, and you’re Margaret.”
Mild alarm is prickling your skin, and you back up slowly. “No, I found your note when I got into your room, but I’m not Margaret. I’m Darby. I just thought I’d better come and let you know that Margaret didn’t get your message. Darby did. And it sounded extremely urgent…and important…” You frown, fairly exhausted from delivering the bad news.
Basil, his mouth still hanging open like a leaf-top desk, finally sinks back onto the upholstered booth. “It is urgent. And important,” he mutters, looking dazed and wounded. “How am I ever going to manage this on my own?”
He looks up at you and for the first time you register his appearance: long, dark eyelashes surrounding light blue eyes, a white dress shirt with the cuffs rolled up sloppily. A rich, tweed jacket, reeking of intellectual superiority is balled up beside him, its suede elbow-pads stiff with indignation.
“You wouldn’t happen to be an archaeologist?” he asks hopefully.
“No,” you croak, feeling utterly useless. You look away, at the row of backs, still shoveling in curry and washing it down with lager, and wonder if everyone else is an archaeologist. “I’m just a painter,” you admit, with shame.
At the moment, you are frozen but fascinated. There's not a thing to do, not a move to make, until you re-animate in a few hours. Part V (The Proposal) will come tonight...
Thursday, April 7, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose - Part Three
The Sleeping Bee
You’re still feeling strangely weepy when you arrive at the door of the Sleeping Bee. Narrow brick steps lead up to a honey-colored front door wreathed with a ring of eucalyptus. The golden bumblebee knocker feels warm in your hand and you realize the sun is gallanting fighting a battle against the pea souper.
“Well, you must be Darby?” a warm Scottish voice twitters before the door was quite open. “Do come inside, you poor darling. What a long trip.”
You can’t bear to recap the morning’s adventures, and prefer to adopt the personage of a person who’s merely traveled far and is aching to be horizontal as soon as is politely possible.
“A very long trip,” you confirm. Mrs. Pringle shows you up four flights of winding steps to a tiny, crooked door that only swings open when muscled violently. Assuming you care nothing for your funny bone, you can see yourself happily coming home to the cottagey cute room with shadowboxes of pinned butterflies and deep windowsills erupting with ferns.
As soon as Mrs. Pringle leaves you alone, you collapse onto the four-poster bed that’s taking up ninety-percent of the tiny room. Through a crack in the curtains you can see the shape of the famous castle, lording over the town from the crown of the hill. You can see yourself walking up the steep lanes to get a closer view, as the city itself, full of steeples and the music of church bells, kneels down below you. Perhaps you will find a shop selling old paperbacks, or a little tearoom where you can sit for hours composing postcards and feasting on sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
The sounds of traffic buzz from below, and the sound of Mrs. Pringle’s vacuum vibrates through the wall, lolling you into a delicious sleep. Smiling, you begin to doze.
Something wakes you up suddenly. What was it? After a moment of utter confusion, you glance toward the nightstand and notice a folded note. Levering yourself onto your elbows, you reach for it. It’s written in a hurried scrawl, freckled with ink splotches and crumbs pressed into the paper like dried rose petals.
Hope you had a safe trip. Many apologies for rush. I need you desperately tonight. Meet me at the Devil’s Punchbowl at 8:00 and we’ll go over to the museum together and start work.
P.S. I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Basil
The frantic tone of the note panics you. You’re sitting upright in bed, practically trembling as you reread it. You must have been sleeping for hours-- the fog seems to have been replaced by darkness, and the street is humming with the sounds of pub-goers and the smells of Indian takeaway. You race downstairs to the cellar kitchen and find Mrs. Pringle plopping muffin mix into a cupcake pan, singing as she plops.
“Do you know who sent this?” you quiz.
“Not a clue, love. The gentleman said to leave it for the American girl who’s checking in today. And that it’s urgent. Since you’re the only one, I figured he must mean you.”
This is absurd! Who does this clown, Basil, think he is? He's obviously got the wrong American. An Indian curry sounds far more intriguing that a nocturnal trip to a moldy museum! Chose 'A' to ignore Basil.
Still, there is something very cloak-and-dagger about a mysterious meeting, followed by a trip to the museum. Which museum? And what sort of work? You've got to admit you're intrigued... the least you can do is go to the Devil's Punchbowl and tell Basil he's got the wrong person. Chose 'B'.
You’re still feeling strangely weepy when you arrive at the door of the Sleeping Bee. Narrow brick steps lead up to a honey-colored front door wreathed with a ring of eucalyptus. The golden bumblebee knocker feels warm in your hand and you realize the sun is gallanting fighting a battle against the pea souper.
“Well, you must be Darby?” a warm Scottish voice twitters before the door was quite open. “Do come inside, you poor darling. What a long trip.”
You can’t bear to recap the morning’s adventures, and prefer to adopt the personage of a person who’s merely traveled far and is aching to be horizontal as soon as is politely possible.
“A very long trip,” you confirm. Mrs. Pringle shows you up four flights of winding steps to a tiny, crooked door that only swings open when muscled violently. Assuming you care nothing for your funny bone, you can see yourself happily coming home to the cottagey cute room with shadowboxes of pinned butterflies and deep windowsills erupting with ferns.
As soon as Mrs. Pringle leaves you alone, you collapse onto the four-poster bed that’s taking up ninety-percent of the tiny room. Through a crack in the curtains you can see the shape of the famous castle, lording over the town from the crown of the hill. You can see yourself walking up the steep lanes to get a closer view, as the city itself, full of steeples and the music of church bells, kneels down below you. Perhaps you will find a shop selling old paperbacks, or a little tearoom where you can sit for hours composing postcards and feasting on sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
The sounds of traffic buzz from below, and the sound of Mrs. Pringle’s vacuum vibrates through the wall, lolling you into a delicious sleep. Smiling, you begin to doze.
Something wakes you up suddenly. What was it? After a moment of utter confusion, you glance toward the nightstand and notice a folded note. Levering yourself onto your elbows, you reach for it. It’s written in a hurried scrawl, freckled with ink splotches and crumbs pressed into the paper like dried rose petals.
Hope you had a safe trip. Many apologies for rush. I need you desperately tonight. Meet me at the Devil’s Punchbowl at 8:00 and we’ll go over to the museum together and start work.
P.S. I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Basil
The frantic tone of the note panics you. You’re sitting upright in bed, practically trembling as you reread it. You must have been sleeping for hours-- the fog seems to have been replaced by darkness, and the street is humming with the sounds of pub-goers and the smells of Indian takeaway. You race downstairs to the cellar kitchen and find Mrs. Pringle plopping muffin mix into a cupcake pan, singing as she plops.
“Do you know who sent this?” you quiz.
“Not a clue, love. The gentleman said to leave it for the American girl who’s checking in today. And that it’s urgent. Since you’re the only one, I figured he must mean you.”
This is absurd! Who does this clown, Basil, think he is? He's obviously got the wrong American. An Indian curry sounds far more intriguing that a nocturnal trip to a moldy museum! Chose 'A' to ignore Basil.
Still, there is something very cloak-and-dagger about a mysterious meeting, followed by a trip to the museum. Which museum? And what sort of work? You've got to admit you're intrigued... the least you can do is go to the Devil's Punchbowl and tell Basil he's got the wrong person. Chose 'B'.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose...Part Two: The Steeple Sweep Cafe
It's your own fault...
The Steeplesweep
You are feeling miraculously rejuvenated at the prospect of an English breakfast; the thought of a smiling pair of egg eyes staring up at you with a bacon smile seems to have immeasurable restorative properties.
The Steeplesweep is an atmospheric old hole in the wall with its buckling, plaster walls that appear to be restrained by the ancient Tudor timbers running across them like prison bars. The little, red-faced manager eyes you with interest as he scratches the stubble on his neck.
“Mind if we sit over here, guv’nor? Cheers.” Martin pushes your suitcases beside a cheery round table near the door.
“Wherever you like,” the manager nods. “Milky coffee, love?” he asks, approaching your table like an eager gnome.
“Yes, please,” you brighten. Your appetite increases with every glance around the pansy-papered room. You’re not really seeing pansies, but rather crumbling castles, medieval moats, sparkling lakes, and tea room windows stacked with Battenberg and shortbread.
“I’ll be right back,” you tell Martin. “I’m just popping to the loo.” Clearly you’re already getting carried away, but why not? “Can you order me a full English brekkie?” you ask him.
“How well-integrated you are already, my lass.”
You’re already enthroned on the loo when you hear the manager start shouting. It’s impossible to make out what he’s saying, but it seems urgent—frantic even. Moving as quickly as you can, you hurry back out to find the cheery corner table deserted.
“Was your chum supposed to leave in such a hurry?” the gnome asks you.
Profoundly confused, your eyes search the café. “Has he gone?”
“He’s gone with both your bags, love. Shall I run after him?”
“With my bags?” you parrot, fingering the purse still slung over your shoulder. “My suitcases!” you finally manage to shout. Light dawns on your marble head. As if on cue, the gnome runs out into the street, but you doubt his miniature legs will take him anywhere in a hurry. The dish towel tucked into the back of his belt is flapping like a tail. A few moments later, he returns panting.
“Sorry, love. He’s a right babbler.”
“A what?”
“A babbling brook.”
You hope you only look confused, but you probably look demented.
“A crook, lass. A crook.” Just then a bell rings in the kitchen. “Here we are then,” the gnome soothes, settling a plate down in front of you. “It’s on the house.”
Frowning, you look down at two eggy eyes and a bacon smile.
What an idiot you’ve been. A right arse. Best thing to do now is to get to the police station and file a report. You never know—maybe there’s a Hercule Poirot or a Miss Marple on the force. Choose ‘A’.
What good can a clutch of billy-stick wielding constables do? Martin is obviously long gone. A trip to the police station will only be an exercise in frustration and you’ll lose the entire day—in addition to your luggage. Best to just check into the Sleeping Bee. Go for 'B'.
The Steeplesweep
You are feeling miraculously rejuvenated at the prospect of an English breakfast; the thought of a smiling pair of egg eyes staring up at you with a bacon smile seems to have immeasurable restorative properties.
The Steeplesweep is an atmospheric old hole in the wall with its buckling, plaster walls that appear to be restrained by the ancient Tudor timbers running across them like prison bars. The little, red-faced manager eyes you with interest as he scratches the stubble on his neck.
“Mind if we sit over here, guv’nor? Cheers.” Martin pushes your suitcases beside a cheery round table near the door.
“Wherever you like,” the manager nods. “Milky coffee, love?” he asks, approaching your table like an eager gnome.
“Yes, please,” you brighten. Your appetite increases with every glance around the pansy-papered room. You’re not really seeing pansies, but rather crumbling castles, medieval moats, sparkling lakes, and tea room windows stacked with Battenberg and shortbread.
“I’ll be right back,” you tell Martin. “I’m just popping to the loo.” Clearly you’re already getting carried away, but why not? “Can you order me a full English brekkie?” you ask him.
“How well-integrated you are already, my lass.”
You’re already enthroned on the loo when you hear the manager start shouting. It’s impossible to make out what he’s saying, but it seems urgent—frantic even. Moving as quickly as you can, you hurry back out to find the cheery corner table deserted.
“Was your chum supposed to leave in such a hurry?” the gnome asks you.
Profoundly confused, your eyes search the café. “Has he gone?”
“He’s gone with both your bags, love. Shall I run after him?”
“With my bags?” you parrot, fingering the purse still slung over your shoulder. “My suitcases!” you finally manage to shout. Light dawns on your marble head. As if on cue, the gnome runs out into the street, but you doubt his miniature legs will take him anywhere in a hurry. The dish towel tucked into the back of his belt is flapping like a tail. A few moments later, he returns panting.
“Sorry, love. He’s a right babbler.”
“A what?”
“A babbling brook.”
You hope you only look confused, but you probably look demented.
“A crook, lass. A crook.” Just then a bell rings in the kitchen. “Here we are then,” the gnome soothes, settling a plate down in front of you. “It’s on the house.”
Frowning, you look down at two eggy eyes and a bacon smile.
What an idiot you’ve been. A right arse. Best thing to do now is to get to the police station and file a report. You never know—maybe there’s a Hercule Poirot or a Miss Marple on the force. Choose ‘A’.
What good can a clutch of billy-stick wielding constables do? Martin is obviously long gone. A trip to the police station will only be an exercise in frustration and you’ll lose the entire day—in addition to your luggage. Best to just check into the Sleeping Bee. Go for 'B'.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
The Adventure of the Travertine Nose...
Adventurers.... this is the first chapter in the Adventure of the Travertine Nose. The meaning of the title will emerge if the character lives long enough to get you into the heart of story. Consider this a 'Choose Your Own (Sordid) Adventure'. Just follow the serialized story and let me know whether you would choose option A or B...
Part One:
Edinburgh Arrival
The morning you arrive in Edinburgh a damp fog that looks like an oil spill colors the air. Emerging from Waverly Station after a harrowing trans-Atlantic journey and train connection (that seemed more fraught with danger then a turn-of-the-century roller coaster) you gobble the fresh air excitedly. No more wailing children who refuse to be silenced by any quantity of peanuts. No more snoring neighbors on the train who have heard of neither deodorant nor toothpaste. Just you and the morning.
You wobble over the cobblestones, teetering slowly with a hulking suitcase in each fist. As you trundle along in search of your hotel, you suddenly feel the weight of the fog wrapping itself around your jacket like bandages on a mummy. Carelessly, you step out in front of a speeding cab-- forgetting the laws of traffic are reversed. A curt honk startles you out of your droopy daze, and you feel your heart hammering and your skin suddenly alive to the sobering mist. The grizzly smells of sausage links and bacon strips attract you to a corner café. Both locals and tourists stream past like sleepwalking soldiers on their way to work.
‘The Steeple Sweep Café’ you read on the battered sign above the door. Just then a sleepwalking soldier collides with you, spilling his coffee all over your suitcases.
“Buggery bullocks!” he croaks, suddenly waking up. “I’m sorry, lass.”
“No, I’m sorry,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have been standing right in front of the door. I’m so tired I’m not paying attention… ”
“I burnt you, didn’t I? Bugger! Bleeding bugger!” The stranger reaches for your hand and frowns at the splotchy red patch. “Martin,” he grimaces, carefully shaking your hand as soon as he’s concluded his examination.
“Darby,” you reply, trying to shake more robustly.
“Darby. Now, that’s a quite an unusual name.”
“It was my grandfather’s,” you yawn.
“You’re American, aren’t you? Can I at least buy you breakfast, Darby?”
You realize you’re starving after that epic journey and a Full English breakfast sounds just the thing. If you enter the Steeple Sweep Café choose ‘A’
Hungry? You can’t even think of food after seven hours of force-feeding. Not to mention the fact that your arms might actually snap off at the elbows if you don’t get your bags to the hotel soon. You’ve got more pressing things on your mind right now than bangers and blood pudding. Choose ‘B’
Post comments to vote!
Part One:
Edinburgh Arrival
The morning you arrive in Edinburgh a damp fog that looks like an oil spill colors the air. Emerging from Waverly Station after a harrowing trans-Atlantic journey and train connection (that seemed more fraught with danger then a turn-of-the-century roller coaster) you gobble the fresh air excitedly. No more wailing children who refuse to be silenced by any quantity of peanuts. No more snoring neighbors on the train who have heard of neither deodorant nor toothpaste. Just you and the morning.
You wobble over the cobblestones, teetering slowly with a hulking suitcase in each fist. As you trundle along in search of your hotel, you suddenly feel the weight of the fog wrapping itself around your jacket like bandages on a mummy. Carelessly, you step out in front of a speeding cab-- forgetting the laws of traffic are reversed. A curt honk startles you out of your droopy daze, and you feel your heart hammering and your skin suddenly alive to the sobering mist. The grizzly smells of sausage links and bacon strips attract you to a corner café. Both locals and tourists stream past like sleepwalking soldiers on their way to work.
‘The Steeple Sweep Café’ you read on the battered sign above the door. Just then a sleepwalking soldier collides with you, spilling his coffee all over your suitcases.
“Buggery bullocks!” he croaks, suddenly waking up. “I’m sorry, lass.”
“No, I’m sorry,” you protest. “I shouldn’t have been standing right in front of the door. I’m so tired I’m not paying attention… ”
“I burnt you, didn’t I? Bugger! Bleeding bugger!” The stranger reaches for your hand and frowns at the splotchy red patch. “Martin,” he grimaces, carefully shaking your hand as soon as he’s concluded his examination.
“Darby,” you reply, trying to shake more robustly.
“Darby. Now, that’s a quite an unusual name.”
“It was my grandfather’s,” you yawn.
“You’re American, aren’t you? Can I at least buy you breakfast, Darby?”
You realize you’re starving after that epic journey and a Full English breakfast sounds just the thing. If you enter the Steeple Sweep Café choose ‘A’
Hungry? You can’t even think of food after seven hours of force-feeding. Not to mention the fact that your arms might actually snap off at the elbows if you don’t get your bags to the hotel soon. You’ve got more pressing things on your mind right now than bangers and blood pudding. Choose ‘B’
Post comments to vote!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Foolishness on April Fool's Day...
Sometimes, during the course of life's stupid busyness, years go by without an April Fool's joke. Such was not the case last night. We combined Wouter's b-day celebration with our weekly cocktail event at his place. The outcome were some VERY tasty, tricky cocktails!
We brought over Wouter's b-day cocktail (The Dominicus). The Dominicus takes its name from Wouter's middle name, and had to be YELLOW (Wouter's favorite color - yellow bike, shoes, bag) for starters. Arjen's recipe is a hat tip to Wouter's days working at Shakeys (a yogurt shake shop), since it was a smooth, fruity drink with a smoothie quality. The rum was a hat tip to his time in Madagascar... and the result was a delicious, YELLOW concoction that we will ever refer to as the Dominicus.
The Dominicus:
1/3 of a banana
4 ounces pineapple juice
1/2 sour mix
2 ounces white rum
1/2 ounce coconut milk
Blend together
Astrid was a bit of a joker and brought some WONDERFULLY appropriate 'beers'. Although there weren't really beers, but instead, empty beer bottles that had been filled with cocktail creations. VERY CLEVER! And so much tastier than beer! Judith was the first one to accept a beer. Suspicious as she is, she sniffed it and examined it quite a bit before tasting it.Impossible to pull a fast one on Judith. I happily accepted the 'beer' and then had a 'refill' a while later. By then, I'd forgotten the joke and was authentically surprised and delighted to taste something other than beer.
Judith had a festive treat for us as well. After spending some time hidden away in the kitchen, she emerged with a glass that was covered with a rag-- much in the style of a magician.
She urged us all to try it, making us feel a little guilty meanwhile for all of the trial/error/time she'd put into the invention of this cocktail. By this time, we were all agog to see it and taste it. Finally, with a flourish, she lifted off the rag-- only to reveal an empty glass-- at which point she informed us that only those among us who had masturbated in the last 24-hours could see it. She calls it 'The Emperor's New Clothes'... anther great joke!
Snarf sampling 'The Emperor's New Clothes'
The Emperor's New Clothes:
-empty glass
-rag
-puritanical story about masturbation
In keeping with the joke/ April Fool's theme, Wouter made a drink for me (yellow of course) that I like to call 'The Banana Peel' (one of the great prat props of all time). It was absolutely PERFECT in my mind, but then I love the two ingredients wildly.
The Banana Peel:
-large cup Bailey's
-large cup Bol's Yogurt Liquer
-Marasquin
-small cup of triple sec
(too many of these and you won't need a banana peel to have a nasty fall)
Arjen made a drink called 'Kikker in je bil' (which translates as a frog in your ass). In true Dutch fashion, they manage to bring ass cheeks into the April Fool's Day event. Instead of saying 'Happy April Fool's Day', they say:
Een April, kikker in je bil
Die er nooit meer uit wil
This 'translates fully as:
'April 1st, frog in your ass, that never wants to come out.'
Perhaps some things are not meant to be translated.
RECIPE
2 ounces yogurt liqueur (Bols yogurt)
1/2 ounce of creme de menthe
Fill to top with tonic
Another of Wouter's creations...named 'The Untied Shoelace' for its power to trip you up as soon as you attempt to stand...
The Untied Shoelace
-2 ounces Baileys
-small cup of Apfelcorn (apple schnapps)
-triple sec
And last but not least, a drink to honor the funniest April Fool's story I heard... my friend Renzo from the gym told me that his grandmother used to call him every April the 1st to tell him she'd been robbed in her house and she was phoning from the floor-- on which she was beached--and she needed him to come immediately. Poor Renzo, being the darling he is, fell for it time and time again. I guess Peruvian women have a great sense of humor AND a vivid imaginations! This drink may leave you similarly prostrate, so make sure you have to phone in one hand when you make it.
The Renzo's Grandma
-large cup op limoncello
-small cup of strawberry liqueur
-small cup of triple sec
-large cup of grapefruit juice
Special guest appearance this week by Snarf...
(See 'The Wandering Snarf' in the right sidebar, and the story of Snarf's happy ending)
We brought over Wouter's b-day cocktail (The Dominicus). The Dominicus takes its name from Wouter's middle name, and had to be YELLOW (Wouter's favorite color - yellow bike, shoes, bag) for starters. Arjen's recipe is a hat tip to Wouter's days working at Shakeys (a yogurt shake shop), since it was a smooth, fruity drink with a smoothie quality. The rum was a hat tip to his time in Madagascar... and the result was a delicious, YELLOW concoction that we will ever refer to as the Dominicus.
1/3 of a banana
4 ounces pineapple juice
1/2 sour mix
2 ounces white rum
1/2 ounce coconut milk
Blend together
Astrid was a bit of a joker and brought some WONDERFULLY appropriate 'beers'. Although there weren't really beers, but instead, empty beer bottles that had been filled with cocktail creations. VERY CLEVER! And so much tastier than beer! Judith was the first one to accept a beer. Suspicious as she is, she sniffed it and examined it quite a bit before tasting it.Impossible to pull a fast one on Judith. I happily accepted the 'beer' and then had a 'refill' a while later. By then, I'd forgotten the joke and was authentically surprised and delighted to taste something other than beer.
Judith had a festive treat for us as well. After spending some time hidden away in the kitchen, she emerged with a glass that was covered with a rag-- much in the style of a magician.
She urged us all to try it, making us feel a little guilty meanwhile for all of the trial/error/time she'd put into the invention of this cocktail. By this time, we were all agog to see it and taste it. Finally, with a flourish, she lifted off the rag-- only to reveal an empty glass-- at which point she informed us that only those among us who had masturbated in the last 24-hours could see it. She calls it 'The Emperor's New Clothes'... anther great joke!
Snarf sampling 'The Emperor's New Clothes'
-empty glass
-rag
-puritanical story about masturbation
In keeping with the joke/ April Fool's theme, Wouter made a drink for me (yellow of course) that I like to call 'The Banana Peel' (one of the great prat props of all time). It was absolutely PERFECT in my mind, but then I love the two ingredients wildly.
-large cup Bailey's
-large cup Bol's Yogurt Liquer
-Marasquin
-small cup of triple sec
(too many of these and you won't need a banana peel to have a nasty fall)
Arjen made a drink called 'Kikker in je bil' (which translates as a frog in your ass). In true Dutch fashion, they manage to bring ass cheeks into the April Fool's Day event. Instead of saying 'Happy April Fool's Day', they say:
Een April, kikker in je bil
Die er nooit meer uit wil
This 'translates fully as:
'April 1st, frog in your ass, that never wants to come out.'
Perhaps some things are not meant to be translated.
RECIPE
2 ounces yogurt liqueur (Bols yogurt)
1/2 ounce of creme de menthe
Fill to top with tonic
Another of Wouter's creations...named 'The Untied Shoelace' for its power to trip you up as soon as you attempt to stand...
The Untied Shoelace
-2 ounces Baileys
-small cup of Apfelcorn (apple schnapps)
-triple sec
And last but not least, a drink to honor the funniest April Fool's story I heard... my friend Renzo from the gym told me that his grandmother used to call him every April the 1st to tell him she'd been robbed in her house and she was phoning from the floor-- on which she was beached--and she needed him to come immediately. Poor Renzo, being the darling he is, fell for it time and time again. I guess Peruvian women have a great sense of humor AND a vivid imaginations! This drink may leave you similarly prostrate, so make sure you have to phone in one hand when you make it.
The Renzo's Grandma
-large cup op limoncello
-small cup of strawberry liqueur
-small cup of triple sec
-large cup of grapefruit juice
Special guest appearance this week by Snarf...
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