1
“So then 4C, to recap. Perpendicular: a straight line at an angle of 90° to a given line, plane, or surface, as illustrated on the board. Line AB is perpendicular to line CD because …. ?
One hand shoots up.
“Eythrope, please enlighten us.”
“Because AB is at right angles to CD, sir.”
“Well, that’s at least one who was probably listening. Who else, I wonder? Let’s be optimistic, shall we, and try … Parslow minor. Parslow, define perpendicular.”
Parslow, tall and lanky with slicked back hair and his one-size-too-small-hand-me-down blazer buttoned all the way up, stood, slipped his right hand into his pocket and his left behind his back Prince-of-Wales-style. Ignoring the audible groans from boys and master, he cleared his throat, smiled broadly, and gazed around the room before addressing his audience.
“It’s so good of you to ask, Dr Broughton-Potts. Perpendicular is a term used to denote the final stage of English Gothic church architecture, prevalent from the late 14th to mid 16th centuries and characterized by broad arches, elaborate fan vaulting, and large windows with vertical tracery. King’s College Chapel in Cambridge is a perfect example, as is our very own chapel not fifty metres from ……”
Dr Broughton-Potts sank to his desk and made to bang his glabrescent head on the lid. Glaring over his pince-nez, through gritted teeth he growled, “Parslow minor, you are an imbecile. Form 4C, what is Parslow minor?”
“An imbecile, sir,” chanted seventeen boys in the way that only the massed ranks of school boys can chant.
Without embarrassment and, for the first time, cognizant of the master’s blackboard presentation, Parslow said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Dr Broughton-Potts, I quite forgot where I was; I really thought this was history.”
Sweeping across the room like the angel of death, gown enveloping the unfortunate, and looming over the cowering Parslow, the master hissed with all the vitriol and venom he could muster, “Do I look like a history master, Parslow? Have I got leather elbow patches? Have I got a beard? Do I drive a Morris Minor? How dare you impugn my professional reputation?” Froth and spittle flecked his handlebar moustache and the object of his ire. “Get out, Parslow, and don’t come back.”
Regaining composure while retaining menace, he warned, “By the by: to you, boy, my name is ‘Sir’. Only my bookmaker, my wine merchant and the lady wife use my name. Let’s try again shall we. Clackmore, define perpendicular.”
Suddenly startled, caught red-handed in possession of a daydream, Clackmore stammered, “ Er … er .. it’s, er … it’s what Parslow said, sir, …… I fink.”
A chalkboard eraser bounced off his desk, enveloping the boy in a cloud of white dust before hitting Slapton at the next desk in the ear.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Slapton, for being anywhere near Clackmore. I give up! Apart from Eythrope (and I’m not completely convinced about him) you are all numbskulls. For you, education in general and geometry in particular, is something that happens to other people. There’s not an iota of understanding, not a scintilla of knowledge, not a jot, tittle or any other tiny amount of application between you. Clearly, you were all absent when the brain cells were handed out by matron upon your joining this august institution. Double prep for the whole class; chapters fourteen and fifteen from The Idiot's Guide to Pythagoras and show your working. Yes, what is it, Farthingstone?”
“Sir, please sir, I know that iota is the ninth letter of the Greek alphabet. When Latin scholars transcribed it, they spelled it as …”
“Oh, really. How truly fascinating. You can add chapter sixteen to your prep for being such a know-it-all-squit, Farthingstone. Now go, and take your iota of a brain with you!”
2
“Parslow minor, this is Craft, Design & Technology and your prep was to research the development of weaving from the Palaeolithic era until the mid 18th century, and to design and to make a simple horizontal or vertical loom as could be found in Asia, Africa and Europe by 700 CE. I repeat, Parslow: CDT not astro-physics. What you have produced, if I understand it correctly, is a detailed, if rather muddled, critique of the late Professor Hawking’s thesis on the space-time continuum, and it’s full of references to the fabric of space. For God’s sake, Parslow, you should know as well as the next boy (even if the next boy is Clackmore) that there is no such term as fabric in physics. Rather, it is a poetic or at least suggestive way to talk about the metric of space-time, about the fact that space-time can be curved, and its curvature changes from point to point, depending on the amount of mass-energy present at that point, as well as a few other bits and pieces covering quantum gravity and cosmology.
“What I require, Parslow, is a simple loom not a simpleton. You’ll have to confine your bamboozlage concerning the secrets of the universe to the Reverend Cuckpowder’s RE lessons. You’ll spend your lunch break in the workshop making a simple loom.”
“But Mrs Bryxworthy, I only used the term ‘fabric’ to illustrate the appearance of space-time when you look close up. But if you pull away from looking at the fine fabric, you see the astrophysical regime of stars, galaxies and clusters, and as you look from further away you see the universe in its larger scales. You may also wonder if there are more universes. All of these have to ….. .”
“That’s as maybe Parslow, and you may wonder all you like, but enough of this procrastination. Lunchtime - workshop - simple loom. And, Parlsow, as far as you’re concerned, my name is ‘Miss’. Only the ladies at the nail bar, and in the waxing and tanning salon, and, of course, the man who must obey, use my name.”
3
Matron had just fixed a very generous gin and tonic; it was Tipsy Tuesday, after all; the day after More-Gin-Matron-Monday, and the day before Wobbly-On-My-Feet-Wednesday. She sighed as she slipped off the sensible, lace up flatties, and replaced them with a pair of comfy, size ten, leopard-patterned stilettos, and loosened the restraints on her ample but not entirely realistic bosom. She was, thus, more than a little vexed by a loud and urgent rapping on her door.
Seeing it was Parslow minor, red faced and sweating profusely, and still wearing his workshop apron, goggles and protective boots, her heart sank and she groaned loudly. “What ails you on this glorious afternoon, Parslow? What medical emergency has diverted you from the rugby, cricket or whatever ghastly sporting endeavour to my door? Bubonic plague, perhaps? Prolapsed uterus, perchance? Could it be a myocardial infarction?”
A middle finger of a left hand was thrust millimetres from her face. “Worse, much worse! It’s this!”
“Come into the light, boy, and let me see. Oh, it’s just a splinter. Not a problem. I’ll just fetch my tweezers.”
“It may be a mere splinter you, Miss Bambimayne, but to me it’s a shard, poisoned, and toxic to my very soul. It is an existential threat that needs must be removed, it is a bacteria laden lance that, should it remain deeply embedded in my flesh a moment longer, will hasten me to an early grave and trigger a week of national mourning at the very least. Be gone with it! Away with it! Get it out, Miss Bambimayne, I beg of you!”
“Stand still, boy. I can’t do anything with you dancing and jiggling all over the place. How did this happen?”
“I had been forced, during my statutory lunch break, into the workshop by that monster, that cruel harpy, that evil gorgon Mrs Bryxworthy, to construct some form of ancient and redundant machinery. Starving, severely dehydrated and struggling with tools and equipment that are cheap, shoddy and blunt, I was presented with insurmountable obstacles which resulted in the life threatening injury you see before you.”
“There. Got it, and such a tiny thing it is, too. I believe you’ll live to insult your teachers another day. Just suck it for while and the bacteria in your saliva will clean it up nicely.”
“My eternal thanks, Miss Bambimayne. If there is something, anything, some small indulgence, some benediction, some act of obligement I can grant or perform for you to demonstrate my enduring gratitude, just name it.”
“Perhaps two sides of quarto on the misuse of hyperbole before lights out tomorrow, and a commitment not to bother me further for at least twenty-four hours would suffice. By the way, Parslow, and for future reference: to you and all the other inmates, I am ‘Matron’. Only my friends at the Salty Dogs Turkish Baths and Sauna; my maroquinier; and my afterhours clients use my name.
“Good afternoon and don’t forget to suck it.”
“So then 4C, to recap. Perpendicular: a straight line at an angle of 90° to a given line, plane, or surface, as illustrated on the board. Line AB is perpendicular to line CD because …. ?
One hand shoots up.
“Eythrope, please enlighten us.”
“Because AB is at right angles to CD, sir.”
“Well, that’s at least one who was probably listening. Who else, I wonder? Let’s be optimistic, shall we, and try … Parslow minor. Parslow, define perpendicular.”
Parslow, tall and lanky with slicked back hair and his one-size-too-small-hand-me-down blazer buttoned all the way up, stood, slipped his right hand into his pocket and his left behind his back Prince-of-Wales-style. Ignoring the audible groans from boys and master, he cleared his throat, smiled broadly, and gazed around the room before addressing his audience.
“It’s so good of you to ask, Dr Broughton-Potts. Perpendicular is a term used to denote the final stage of English Gothic church architecture, prevalent from the late 14th to mid 16th centuries and characterized by broad arches, elaborate fan vaulting, and large windows with vertical tracery. King’s College Chapel in Cambridge is a perfect example, as is our very own chapel not fifty metres from ……”
Dr Broughton-Potts sank to his desk and made to bang his glabrescent head on the lid. Glaring over his pince-nez, through gritted teeth he growled, “Parslow minor, you are an imbecile. Form 4C, what is Parslow minor?”
“An imbecile, sir,” chanted seventeen boys in the way that only the massed ranks of school boys can chant.
Without embarrassment and, for the first time, cognizant of the master’s blackboard presentation, Parslow said, “I’m dreadfully sorry, Dr Broughton-Potts, I quite forgot where I was; I really thought this was history.”
Sweeping across the room like the angel of death, gown enveloping the unfortunate, and looming over the cowering Parslow, the master hissed with all the vitriol and venom he could muster, “Do I look like a history master, Parslow? Have I got leather elbow patches? Have I got a beard? Do I drive a Morris Minor? How dare you impugn my professional reputation?” Froth and spittle flecked his handlebar moustache and the object of his ire. “Get out, Parslow, and don’t come back.”
Regaining composure while retaining menace, he warned, “By the by: to you, boy, my name is ‘Sir’. Only my bookmaker, my wine merchant and the lady wife use my name. Let’s try again shall we. Clackmore, define perpendicular.”
Suddenly startled, caught red-handed in possession of a daydream, Clackmore stammered, “ Er … er .. it’s, er … it’s what Parslow said, sir, …… I fink.”
A chalkboard eraser bounced off his desk, enveloping the boy in a cloud of white dust before hitting Slapton at the next desk in the ear.
“Let that be a lesson to you, Slapton, for being anywhere near Clackmore. I give up! Apart from Eythrope (and I’m not completely convinced about him) you are all numbskulls. For you, education in general and geometry in particular, is something that happens to other people. There’s not an iota of understanding, not a scintilla of knowledge, not a jot, tittle or any other tiny amount of application between you. Clearly, you were all absent when the brain cells were handed out by matron upon your joining this august institution. Double prep for the whole class; chapters fourteen and fifteen from The Idiot's Guide to Pythagoras and show your working. Yes, what is it, Farthingstone?”
“Sir, please sir, I know that iota is the ninth letter of the Greek alphabet. When Latin scholars transcribed it, they spelled it as …”
“Oh, really. How truly fascinating. You can add chapter sixteen to your prep for being such a know-it-all-squit, Farthingstone. Now go, and take your iota of a brain with you!”
2
“Parslow minor, this is Craft, Design & Technology and your prep was to research the development of weaving from the Palaeolithic era until the mid 18th century, and to design and to make a simple horizontal or vertical loom as could be found in Asia, Africa and Europe by 700 CE. I repeat, Parslow: CDT not astro-physics. What you have produced, if I understand it correctly, is a detailed, if rather muddled, critique of the late Professor Hawking’s thesis on the space-time continuum, and it’s full of references to the fabric of space. For God’s sake, Parslow, you should know as well as the next boy (even if the next boy is Clackmore) that there is no such term as fabric in physics. Rather, it is a poetic or at least suggestive way to talk about the metric of space-time, about the fact that space-time can be curved, and its curvature changes from point to point, depending on the amount of mass-energy present at that point, as well as a few other bits and pieces covering quantum gravity and cosmology.
“What I require, Parslow, is a simple loom not a simpleton. You’ll have to confine your bamboozlage concerning the secrets of the universe to the Reverend Cuckpowder’s RE lessons. You’ll spend your lunch break in the workshop making a simple loom.”
“But Mrs Bryxworthy, I only used the term ‘fabric’ to illustrate the appearance of space-time when you look close up. But if you pull away from looking at the fine fabric, you see the astrophysical regime of stars, galaxies and clusters, and as you look from further away you see the universe in its larger scales. You may also wonder if there are more universes. All of these have to ….. .”
“That’s as maybe Parslow, and you may wonder all you like, but enough of this procrastination. Lunchtime - workshop - simple loom. And, Parlsow, as far as you’re concerned, my name is ‘Miss’. Only the ladies at the nail bar, and in the waxing and tanning salon, and, of course, the man who must obey, use my name.”
3
Matron had just fixed a very generous gin and tonic; it was Tipsy Tuesday, after all; the day after More-Gin-Matron-Monday, and the day before Wobbly-On-My-Feet-Wednesday. She sighed as she slipped off the sensible, lace up flatties, and replaced them with a pair of comfy, size ten, leopard-patterned stilettos, and loosened the restraints on her ample but not entirely realistic bosom. She was, thus, more than a little vexed by a loud and urgent rapping on her door.
Seeing it was Parslow minor, red faced and sweating profusely, and still wearing his workshop apron, goggles and protective boots, her heart sank and she groaned loudly. “What ails you on this glorious afternoon, Parslow? What medical emergency has diverted you from the rugby, cricket or whatever ghastly sporting endeavour to my door? Bubonic plague, perhaps? Prolapsed uterus, perchance? Could it be a myocardial infarction?”
A middle finger of a left hand was thrust millimetres from her face. “Worse, much worse! It’s this!”
“Come into the light, boy, and let me see. Oh, it’s just a splinter. Not a problem. I’ll just fetch my tweezers.”
“It may be a mere splinter you, Miss Bambimayne, but to me it’s a shard, poisoned, and toxic to my very soul. It is an existential threat that needs must be removed, it is a bacteria laden lance that, should it remain deeply embedded in my flesh a moment longer, will hasten me to an early grave and trigger a week of national mourning at the very least. Be gone with it! Away with it! Get it out, Miss Bambimayne, I beg of you!”
“Stand still, boy. I can’t do anything with you dancing and jiggling all over the place. How did this happen?”
“I had been forced, during my statutory lunch break, into the workshop by that monster, that cruel harpy, that evil gorgon Mrs Bryxworthy, to construct some form of ancient and redundant machinery. Starving, severely dehydrated and struggling with tools and equipment that are cheap, shoddy and blunt, I was presented with insurmountable obstacles which resulted in the life threatening injury you see before you.”
“There. Got it, and such a tiny thing it is, too. I believe you’ll live to insult your teachers another day. Just suck it for while and the bacteria in your saliva will clean it up nicely.”
“My eternal thanks, Miss Bambimayne. If there is something, anything, some small indulgence, some benediction, some act of obligement I can grant or perform for you to demonstrate my enduring gratitude, just name it.”
“Perhaps two sides of quarto on the misuse of hyperbole before lights out tomorrow, and a commitment not to bother me further for at least twenty-four hours would suffice. By the way, Parslow, and for future reference: to you and all the other inmates, I am ‘Matron’. Only my friends at the Salty Dogs Turkish Baths and Sauna; my maroquinier; and my afterhours clients use my name.
“Good afternoon and don’t forget to suck it.”