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W. J. Webster
We took our seats at the table. There were seven of us and we had everything we needed to make Speech Day at St Etheldreda’s a day to remember: croquet hoops, ferrets, bottles from the stinks lab, crow-scarers, a frog and three pink pyjama trousers filled with shaving foam.
Clever Monica explained how to plant the croquet hoops upside down on the West Lawn to puncture the car tyres. Celia from the Upper Fourth showed us how to smuggle in the ferrets and Camilla agreed to make the stink bombs. Silly old Ariadne had a sulk when I was picked to set off the fire alarm with a hockey stick, but we all had a hoot of a time priming the crow-scarers.
Brave Felicity volunteered to pop the frog into Batty Battersby’s carafe of water during the main speech. And then we asked Angela to explain about the pyjamas.
John Chilver
We took our seats at the table. There were seven of us. It was to be a serious confabulation. An odd number was vital, in case we had to vote. The table was oval, so we sat three down each side and one at the bottom, as there was not to be a top. It was to be a completely non-hierarchical, non-sexist assembly. That’s the way our community is run. It’s lucky there aren’t more of us, really. Reaching a common accord on beginning and ending a meeting is difficult and we all have a variety of nits to pick on these occasions.
On this particular Tuesday, Anselm (we have all chosen names starting with ‘A’ to avoid precedence problems) brought up the subject of how often to change the tea-towel in the kitchen, Ann (who is, of course, male) wanted to discuss our policy on bed-times and then we asked Angela to explain about the pyjamas.
Emily Hussey
We took our seats at the table. There were seven of us, of course. The gigantic woman who’d just turned up said her name was Snow-White.
‘Bugger that,’ said Grumpy. ‘You only get names like that in bloody fairy-stories. What’s on your birth certificate?’
‘OK, OK, it’s really Angela Wrigglesworth. But if you let me stay I can do the housework for you! I’ve got these trained bluebirds and squirrels.’
‘And where, pray, do you propose to kip?’
It was a tricky one. We only had the one bed and we all crashed there as soon as we’d finished down the mine and had our tea. She’d just have to squeeze in.
She looked at us, looked at the bed and went on for about ten minutes. She even had some ideas about us taking our boots off first. And then we asked Angela to explain about the pyjamas.
Brian Murdoch
We took our seats at the table. There were seven of us. Corporal Jessington stood to attention before us. In the distance, the enemy guns boomed. Who knew what hell those guns had inflicted on Jessington? The major, reading out the charges, looked pale: ‘… wearing a pair of ladies’ pyjamas whilst on duty in the front line; refusing to follow orders unless addressed as … “Angela”. Damn it, man, explain yourself!’
Jessington remained still.
‘Perhaps, Dr Simms, if you were to …?’ I caught Simms’s eye.
‘Aaah! Good thinking,’ said Simms, turning again to Jessington. ‘Angela,’ he smiled, ‘do take a seat, dear. We only want to listen.’
Jessington’s manner softened and he sat. At that the major left.
‘Lunatics! Quacks!’ he roared. The door slammed. A silence fell. And then we asked Angela to explain about the pyjamas.
Andrew Brison
No. 2456: The dying inn
Adapting Chesterton’s title, The Flying Inn, I invite you to supply a poem (maximum 16 lines) lamenting the degeneration of the traditional English pub. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2456’ by 10 August.
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