We had a meal in the above house yesterday. It was somewhere between a latish high tea, and an early supper. We lived there for a while in the seventies, and when we decided that we needed somewhere larger in 1977 our friend Judy bought it from us. She must have thought it was a good buy because she still lives there with her husband David. They asked us for the meal a week or two back, but David (who is a keen amateur photographer) warned me that it came with strings attached. He said that the local photography club, of which he is a keen member, meets on Thursdays in the local Church Hall, which is almost next door to their home, and would I be willing to be a model for them? He said they usually had two models per session, a 'character' and 'someone young and attractive, usually a dolly bird'. Of course I didn't feel the need to ask which model I was needed as. So after an excellent hot supper provided by Judy, David and I wandered round to the Church Hall. It was an interesting evening. I had a couple of 'props', a leather bound volume of Victorian poetry supplied by Judy, and a long flintlock holster pistol of me own. They gave me an oak ladder backed arm chair to sit in. The club members took turns to arrange the models and take their photographs, then seemed to take ages to actually snap us. The easiest part was when I found 'the Jackdaw of Rheims' in Judy's book, so could sit and read whilst they snapped away. The only awkward part came when I was posing with the pistol and the photographer asked me to point it straight at him. "I'd much rather not" I said "Oh, why?" he said, so I gave him the verse of an old poem I'd been brought up on - "Never, never let your gun, pointed be at anyone. All the pheasants ever bred- won't make up for one man dead". Doggerel I know, but it puts a very valid point quite neatly. Anyway, when the photographer realised I wasn't going to comply with his direction, he asked me to point the pistol at an imaginary target, which I did.
On the other side of the room the 'dolly bird', an attractive and friendly child in her late teens and accompanied (chaperoned I think the word is) by her mother, appeared far more used than I to the business, and was very relaxed about it. Generally speaking the photographers were quite clear about telling me what they wanted, and explained about their equipment and the lighting. Altogether it was a very interesting couple of hours or so, although surprisingly tiring.
Must go and clean some shoes (and boots), ready for the weekend.
7 comments:
When do I get to see some of these photographs?
Do we get to see pics of the dolly bird then?
Oh alright! And you!...;-)
Looks a lovely house. You can't beat a few beams about the place.
Hi Lori. Soon after I do. They said they'd let me see some of 'the prints'.
Sorry 4Ds. They didn't mention sending me any the dolly bird's pics. So you're stuck with pics of me (and I know you've seen plenty of those).
Cheers, Mike.
Cry "God for Harry, England and Saint George!"
Wishing you all a Brave and Liberal St. George's Day.
I really feel the Liberal vote is the only chance of liberating the nation from the fiscal and social dragons under whose dictats we struggle and perish!
The Jackdaw of Rheims by Richard Harris Barham (1788-1845)is a most improving and entertaining canticle, which should be read by all Mike.
So here it is again if you care to "Publish and be blessed!" for a change.
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair!
Bishop and abbot and prior were there;
Many a monk and many a friar,
Many a knight and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,
In sooth a goodly company;
And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims!
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier! He hopp'd upon all!
With saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to-day!"
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, "The Devil must be in that little Jackdaw!"
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The flawns and the custards had all disappear'd,
And six little singing-boys--dear little souls!
In nice clean faces and nice white stoles,
Came, in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through!
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Emboss'd and fill'd with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a fine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water, and eau de Cologne
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink
And a Cardinal's Hat mark'd in permanent ink.
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white:
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise;
And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait;
'Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring!
There's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they're about,
But the Monks have their pockets all turn'd inside out.
The Friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-colour'd shoe,
And left his red stockings exposed to the view;
He peeps and he feels
In the toes and the heels;
They turn up the dishes; they turn up the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the grates,
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mugs:
But, no! - no such thing;
They can't find THE RING!
And the Abbott declared that, "when nobody twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in and prigg'd it!"
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell and his book!
In holy anger and pious grief,
He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!
He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed;
From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head;
He cursed him in sleeping, that every night
He should dream of the devil and wake in a fright;
He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking,
He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking;
He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying;
He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying,
He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying!--
Never was heard such a terrible curse!
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!
The day was gone,
The night came on,
The Monks and the Friars they search'd till dawn;
When the Sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;
His pinions droop'd - he could hardly stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your hand;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!
That's the scamp that's done this scandalous thing!
That's the thief that's got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the Monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;
And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
"Pray, be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the ring in the nest of that little Jackdaw!
Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;
The mute expression
Served in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek and fat;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more
Even than before;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair.
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout;
At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied, - or if any one swore,
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great "Caw!"
As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!"
He long lived the pride
Of that countryside,
And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determined to make him a Saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonized him by the name of Jim Crow!
Hi Carl. Not too sure about the liberals. They want to liberalise all illegal immigrants, and make our coinage the Euro. I'm not too keen. I really don't know who to vote for.Still we'll have a natter at the weekend.
Love, Mike and Ann.
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