Interlopers

Back to the Fifties Again

To the best of my knowledge, the number of bona fide aunts and uncles to which I can lay claim, is as follows:

Mother’s brothers: 6

Mother’s sisters: 2

Father’s brothers: 1

Father’s sisters: 3

That makes a total of 7 uncles and 5 aunts. For the moment, we’ll stick with the blood line and discount brothers and sisters in law.

The Fabulous Fifties

Alongside this assembly of relations, ran another agglomeration of aunts and uncles. A much larger and more formidable collection. It appears that in the 1950s, just about every family had hoards of these interloping relatives. Their genesis was due to the fact that in that era, it was very much frowned upon, for a child to call an adult by their first name. At the same time, it was considered just a little too formal for parents’ friends to be addressed by a youngster as ‘Mr’ or ‘Mrs’.

The obvious solution to the problem was to tack an ‘aunt’ or ‘uncle’ onto the Christian name and that would resolve all problems.

Or would it?

The chances of landing an absolute turkey were worryingly high and most children regarded these infiltrators with deep suspicion.

Take Aunty Kitty, for example:

Aunt Kitty was most definitely not pretty,

But she was pretty unnerving.

What did it, was the incipient beard and moustache,

That you couldn’t help observing.

She had a habit of pinching your cheek really hard,

which is something every adolescent abhors,

Together with her proclivity for invading your personal space,

And a tendency to press her moustachioed face up against yours.

Aunt Kitty was way beyond grotesque.

She was positively Kafkaesque

Possibly the scariest lady on Earth,

Which is why we gave her a very wide berth.

Maggie Smart

Homecoming

The 27th Squadron was coming home - and we were going to give them a rapturous welcome.

A Parade

A parade, a parade, we’re going to have a parade! The ticker tape's been ordered, the plans have all been made,

The balloons will be inflated and the flags will flutter high And everyone will raise a cheer as the troops go marching by.

A parade, a parade, we’re going to have a parade

The trumpets will be sounded and the fife and cornet played

To celebrate the gallantry of those who have returned,

And demonstrate to one and all, the gratitude they’ve earned.

A parade, a parade, we’re going to have a parade! There’ll be joy and laughter and merriment will be made.

To them we’ll raise our glasses, for they’ve never let us down,

Those brave and noble heroes, who’ll march proudly through the town.

Maggie Smart

.

And what of the Anthology?

It had a preliminary print run of a couple of hundred books, which were mostly taken up by friends and families.

Then, when the 27th Squadron was disbanded, everyone went their separate ways and the poetry book was sadly lost in the mists of time. It had enjoyed a short lived success and

had been picked up by regional television and radio stations, as well as the national and local press, all of whom gave it brilliant reviews.

In order to have taken it further, it would have required proper marketing and none of us had the necessary time, inclination or skills. Furthermore, since we were scattered across the country, some of us completely lost touch.

However, we were very proud of the fact that the Imperial War Museum obtained a copy of the Anthology and placed it in their collection of war poetry. Our little, homespun poetry book lay alongside works of the great war poets.

Maybe the Anthology will one day be resurrected?

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Chapter Five

Meanwhile, over on the south bank, ensconced in one of the inner offices within the shambles that had once been City Hall, Bony Glare was completely absorbed in a game of Scrabble, that he was playing with two imaginary friends. The scale of cheating in which Bony was indulging, completely eclipsed the efforts of G.B and Igor. This was mega cheating. This was dictionary hidden under the table / dis-disallowance of valid words / use of invalid words / high power cheating. His opponents, Gordon Frown and Alistair Snarling, were imaginary only in the sense that they weren’t there. Otherwise, they were alive and kicking. Indeed, had they been aware of the state of none existence which Glare had conferred upon them, they would, no doubt, have made a huge fuss.

City Hall was home to Glare, Rabbit and Carton who each had a two bed roomed apartment in the huge, dilapidated building. There were also about twenty studio flats, inhabited by a motley collection of aged lefties, including Frown and Snarling. There was ample scope for political gatherings and bad-tempered exchanges in the large, communal lounge area. It was towards this area that Bony ambled, having trounced his two imaginary friends at Scrabble. He selected an armchair by the fire and plonked himself down. He soon shot up again as he was nearly skewered by a large pair of knitting needles which had been stuffed down the side of the chair

“Bloody Rabbit,' he moaned. ”This is all her stuff.”

He proceeded to extract a tapestry bag which contained a load of knitting paraphernalia. There were skeins of wool, patterns, yarns, threads and needles. Disturbingly, there was also a creepy series of small, knitted men and women, all of whom were perfectly crafted and bore striking resemblances to a number of persons known to Glare. Chillingly, there was even one of Glare himself. Most sinister of all, was the tiny model guillotine, which had started its days as a cigar cutter in a tobacconists. The small, knitted men and women were just the right size to fit the guillotine, Bony Glare gave a shudder, he had, long ago, determined that there was something not quite right about Diane Rabbit. There was, for instance, all that Madam Defarge nonsense, and what on earth was it with the eternal, obsessional knitting?

At that very moment, the Diva herself breezed in with a huge tote bag, crammed full of what looked like leaflets, slung over her shoulder. Quickly retrieving her knitting sundries, she deposited her bag on the chair and as she did so, a leaflet fluttered to the ground.

Bony Glare glanced at the leaflet as he retrieved it from the floor. It was obviously

an electioneering pamphlet. It was also obvious that it was a botched and hastily slung together job. The slogan 'Vote Diberal Lemocrat' had been snow-flaked out and replaced with the slogan 'Vote Conswervative.’ On the reverse side, there were five numbered declarations which, for the most part, made completely no sense.

1 We pledge not to make any meaningless pledges.

2 We promise to deliver whatever it was that we promised to deliver.

3 Brexit was a really good idea (the word 'good' replaced the word 'bad,' which had been snow-flaked out.) We promised to implement it. and we did. (the word ‘implement’ replaced 'cancel’) ‘

4 Brexit means Brexit (not Armageddon)

5. Anyway, Armageddon does not necessarily mean the end of the world.

Bony turned on Diane and speared her with a piercing look, delivered by laser beam, from angry, red eyes.

“Would you mind telling me,'” he said, gesturing at the tote bag, 'What all this is ?”

The Diva employed her most simpering voice. “They’re leaflets,” she replied disarmingly.

“I can see that they’re leaflets, but what l can’t see is what you’re doing with them. Where did they come from?" Glare's tones were flinty.

The Diva selected her rubbery voice for her response, which she made with an air of bored indifference.

“They came from The Thames (sigh) where someone with a grudge against the Dib Lems must have thrown them, (sigh). Igor fished them out, adapted them and gave them to me. (sigh) I’m delivering them (sigh)."

Bony Glare went bonkers. You could almost see the steam coming out of his ears.

“Are you absolutely, completely and utterly deranged ?” he roared. Why in the name of Socialism would you deliver leaflets for Igor?”

“Because he offered me a peerage.”

Bony was on the verge of a seizure.

“Aaaghhhhhhh,” he screamed, “You have to be totally, stark-raving mad” After a hiccupy pause, he thought to ask:

“Where have you been delivering these ruddy things?”

The Diva's response was laconic, “Islington.” she said.

“Aaaghhhhhhh,” screamed Bony for a second time. “Well now they’re going right back where they came from.”

Seizing the tote bag, Bony Glare, he of the beatific smile, gleaming teeth, high brow and fixed eyes, rushed to the Embankment and hurled the bag and it’s contents into the angry waters of the Thames.

“Hey! What about my bloody peerage?” shrieked The Diva

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