End of an Era

Unsurprisingly, the telephone has not started ringing. But there may be one or two readers out there who rightly surmise that in the general excitement of what those at the Saturday Times will no doubt call a ‘makeover’, Lexiconfusion appears to have perished at the sword of redesign. We have no rebuttal to such an inference. It does indeed appear to be the case.

In other words, as Mrs Spelling so eloquently put it, we ‘got the shove’.

It has been an honour and a privilege to sit in this book-lined Scriptorium warming my feet beside the roaring fire whilst pondering the next homograph to be inserted in the pages of the Times. But all good things must come to an end. Or must they? Perhaps if enough of our dear Readers disagreed with my cliche-ridden assessment and made their disquiet at the loss of Lexiconfusion known to the powers that be at the newspaper, then we might be reinstated… It is just a thought – the editor can be contacted on letters@thetimes.co.uk

Order restored

After the unfortunate ‘greased slipper incident’, which was duly noted in the Scriptorium Accident Book (hardly a book, say I: more a child’s jotter kept solely to satisfy the prying bureaucratic eyes of wandering Health and Safety officers), Mrs Spelling was accosted and confronted with our suspicions.

‘It’s true!’ she sobbed into her chamois leather. ‘I put the beeswax on the steps and then forgot to buff ‘em up again. I never meant no ‘arm, so ‘elp me!’

‘Mrs Spelling, please get a grip on yourself and stop descending into Dickensian caricature!’ I admonished her sternly. ‘It is most gratifying to learn that the greased steps were an accidental oversight, and encouraging also that you have once more deigned to reside under the Scriptorium’s roof, and to preside over the housekeeping duties. We are much obliged to you. If you had chosen to spend many more weeks at your cousin Mildred’s I am afraid Mr Bennett and I would have passed away with malnourishment.’ As indeed would this blog, although we all might have regarded that as a blessed release.

‘Much obliged, sir’, murmured Mrs Spelling, not quite yet freed from the bonds of caricature, as she retreated from the library.

And so it is that life in the Scriptorium has regained a certain balance at long last. The days are shortening, and the temperature dropping, for we are almost at that juncture in the year when carefree British Summer Time bids us a sad but fond farewell and we once again cower under the surly animosities of the aptly named Greenwich Mean Time. But with a roaring fire in the grate, and the sound of Mr Bennett’s nib scratching in the background, and a steak and kidney pudding in the offing, life is comfortably tolerable once more.

Mrs Spelling

We have had an unfortunate event at the scriptorium; namely an oily deposit on the ladders which almost resulted in shoddy  death when the  low friction leather soles of my library-creepers came into contact with it. `I  feel it may  have been the Spelling woman’s fault-  if that is not too Poirotesque an assertion. But let us face the fact that Mrs Spelling  has always struck me as a vicious stunted misanthrope. And yet she has never failed to bring the tea on time.

In Absentia…

We must apologise to our dear Reader (the ‘blog stats’, as I believe they are called, indeed indicating that there is only one) for our unexplained absence. Suffice to say that several weeks ago Mrs Spelling was overtaken by a sudden desire to visit Timbucktoo, where her cousin apparently resides, thus plunging Messrs Bennett and Teed into a querulous predicament. When I made mention of the fact, as our dear Housekeeper was almost running to the front door with her suitcase, she merely declared:

‘It’s time you two miserly old miseries learned to fend for yourselves!’

And so it was that my esteemed colleague and I have indeed been relearning various skills associated, we believe, with modern life. Of these, I can report that I am most proud of my success in the kitchen, where only last evening I rendered a fox that had fallen into one of my garden snares into a most edible ragout. (Although Mr Bennett’s comment was merely ‘terrible fox’.)

Of these new lifeskills, however, I must admit that blogging has not been at the forefront.

Less is more

I am reminded by Mr Bennett, shortly after completing what I believe the youngsters would call my last ‘post’, that it is more advisable in the world of blogging to keep things short. In fact, his exact words were:

‘For God’s sake, man, keep it snappy! Less is more, and all that’.

My colleague’s words sent a shudder down my spine, not least because he opted to employ the ubiquitous, oxymoronic phraseology of ‘less is more’.

‘Get with the times, Mr Teed’, was his defence when questioned on this matter. ‘You’ll see I only speak truths’.

I repaired to the great Lexicon in an effort to soothe my fraying nerves, for I knew it was society’s fault, not Mr Bennett’s, that every cock and spaniel bandied about that infernal phrase ‘less is more’ as if it meant something.

‘Great Scott!’ I exclaimed, moments later. ‘Mr Bennett, you are almost right!’

‘Only almost?’ enquired my startled friend.

‘According to the Dictionary, and I quote, “Less, sense 5: used peculiarly by Shakespeare with words expressing or implying a negative, where the sense requires more“. Then there are examples from the Winter’s Tale and Cymbeline’.

‘I see’, Mr Bennett said drily. ‘In other words Shakespeare agreed that less is actually more? How more right, in the English language, do you require me to be?’

‘It’s a very narrow sense, hardly used’, I blustered, closing the Dictionary. ‘And besides it is obsolete now’.

Mr Bennett returned to his palette in disgust. ‘Ha! Forget it, Mr Teed. Just keep it snappy’.

 

Peace in Our Time

It appears that peace has broken out all over the Scriptorium. Perhaps it was the momentary appearance of spring sunshine through the high windows, or certain herbal additions made by Mrs Spelling to her chocolate macaroons, but détente has softened to entente, which in turn has become once more the special relationship of old.

‘A round of Junior Scrabble, Mr Bennett?’ I offered my colleague after we had taken tea.

‘Only if we play Polish rules’, he replied.

‘Quite so. With Latvian wildcards?’ 

‘Absolutely. Fetch the board, Mr Teed’.

And thus ensued a thoroughly diverting game, which Mr Bennett won thanks mainly to tactics taught him by Boris, our recently employed plumber from Gdansk.