Sir Charles Maxwell-House finds a brand new medium for his ramblings!
My dear readers, I must confess that I have not quite been myself of late. My zest for life seems curiously flaccid, my joie de vivre sadly flagging. I suppose it all began on my return from New York following my rebellious (and -according to some reports, if you would credit them, ‘disgraceful’) exit from P.I.L.E.S. (see issue ten if you can bear to be reminded of this ridiculous incident – I assuredly will not go into it again).
On arrival back at HQ, Mrs B greeted me with some most unfortunate news: my great friend and confidante, and the bona fide hero of the trenches, Major Cholmondley-Chaser-Hound, had most unexpectedly been taken ill and as a result was installed at the Kensington & Chelsea Home for Military Oldsters.
Naturally I rushed to see him there and found him most painfully diminished – he tried to rally his spirits, as of old, when I told him all about Professor BAPs’s ludicrous behaviour at the New York conference, but in all honesty he could not quite bring himself to the necessary outrage. I looked at his fragile pale hands as they rested feather-light on the itchy regulation blanket and felt a chill shiver through my heart.
His absence from the club is a great loss to me … and besides it is much quieter these days: Sir John Fruitcake has such a powerful dose of the gout that he is quite unable to move; Sir Pasty Bips has gone to take the waters in Bath; Montague Toast, celebrated wit and bon viveur has been forced to go and live with his brother in Oxford due to financial difficulties and general decrepitude, and even the formerly much-disliked (now much-missed) Baron Frederick von Hamburger is absent following a cruel run-in with a fellow mobility scooter driver on High Street Ken.
Of course, there are new members, but such is their crude contribution to club society that I can barely tolerate them. There are a few particularly obnoxious spring chickens just retired from the civil service who are forever getting hideously and very loudly drunk, and a couple of army majors who seem far too young to have ever seen proper service. [Readers maybe interested to note that Sir Charles was repeatedly excused from all active service due to a painfully high instep – Ed.] No, it is just not the same without the dear Major, dozing close at hand or listening agog, rooted to the spot, by the extraordinary nature of my literary discoveries.
Now when I awaken, instead of leaping up invigorated and ready for further discoveries and academic excellence, I ease gently out from beneath the covers, my ligaments and bones silently revolting at the disturbance from supine rest. I notice – has it been so for some time, I wonder? – that my shoulders seem a little hunched, and I have a tendency to stoop, most at odds with my oft-admired posture, the straight-backed signature Maxwell-House stance. Mrs B, the good woman, is worried and tries to cheer me up with more and more adventurous breakfast options – jugged puffin, coddled heron eggs, even, on one extraordinary occasion last week, something described as a kangaroo kedgeree – but it is no good.
The nadir of this whole episode occurred early one fine Saturday morning a few weeks after my return. I was strolling peaceably enough in the Park before a planned visit to the Major with the Telegraph crossword, admiring the large green vistas, turning leaves and cloudless blue sky, when I took a most unfortunate (and heavy) tumble. Finding the sole of my leisure shoe slipping uncontrollably against the shiny chestnut globe of one of the many magnificent conkers lining the way, my ankle went over on itself, causing it to twist and throw me into an unseemly heap on the tarmac.
As luck would have it, Mrs B had just departed for her annual pilgrimage to the Outer Hebrides and, even as I lay on the warm ground writhing in agony amidst the now startlingly close conkers, my greatest fear was that my dreaded nephew, whom I hadn’t seen since our ill-fated festive trip to the Maldives, Tarquin Rosias Maxwell-House II, and his intolerable family would be forced by ties of blood (and hopes of inheritance) to offer me succour. I groaned in despair (perhaps construed as agony by the many curious passers-by who stared, but failed to offer me any assistance). Eventually a strolling traffic warden took pity on me and sure enough, two hours later I found myself in the auspicious surrounds of the Tarquin’s Kensington townhouse, propped up on an old Chesterfield in their almost entirely unused and inappropriately named ‘study’.
I glanced superciliously at my surrounds, in particular noting the desultory reading matter: self-help books, sporting autobiographies, yoga manuals and astrology guides were all that were on offer on the bland white ‘Shabbytat’ shelves. Pah! It truly was a household of philistines. There wasn’t a writing implement in sight, only a large machine on the desk, upon whose screen a maddeningly hypnotic, unceasingly morphing, rainbow-coloured graphic image slowly revolved. How I could possibly be related to these people was still a distinct mystery.
And although the buxom Salome (aka Mrs Tarquin Rosias Maxwell-House) had placed a bag of ice on my throbbing ankle and drawn the curtains so that the room was cool and pleasantly dim, she seemed unable to stop the uninterrupted hooting, wailing and fighting of her five robust offspring, namely Rupes, Louis, Ariadne, Henrietta and her youngest Henry.
After what seemed like several hours of excruciating noise, I heard a frenzied scratching at the door, and, after a few more determined scrapings, Hector, their ageing Irish Wolfhound appeared, gaunt and bedraggled, in the doorway. The poor old soul had apparently had enough – his fur was, in places, tied up in bunches with colourful ribbon, and in others spattered with generous daubs of mud. He had clearly been the central component to one or more of the children’s half-crazed games. I fully sympathised with his plight. ‘Come here, old thing,’ I whispered, and he lumbered over, flopping down dejectedly on the floor by the couch. We both sighed heavily. Perhaps it was the sinister writhing on the screen, which became more and more unpleasant as the light behind the curtains dimmed towards dusk, or perhaps Salome had finally found some sedatives for the children; it could even have been the dull reverb of old Hector’s heavy breathing, but I confess, I must have dozed off – most unlike me.
I was awoken, I know not how much later, by the study door creaking loudly ajar. With difficulty I opened my heavy lids and saw standing before me the youngest child, Henry, illuminated by the hall light streaming in behind him. For the first time I noticed what a sweet face he had, the features small and perfect, topped off with a tumble of dark blond curls. He was looking at me with some concern registering in his large blue eyes.
‘Great-Uncle Charles?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why do you look so weird?’
Then he started giggling. I could little imagine what a marooned old codger with a swollen ankle lying prostrate in a darkened room could possibly look like to a seven-year-old, so I didn’t dare risk further enquiry.
Still somewhat confused, I said, ‘I don’t know, Henry. I regret to say there is a slight possibility that I have been dozing.’
‘Oh.’ He looked nonplussed for a moment, but quickly recovered and announced, ‘I’m going to talk to my friend now.’
I feared some awful imaginary chum that I would be forced to play along with, but instead he sat quietly at the desk and somehow brought the computer screen to life. Its violent white light cast a Gothic gloom over the high-ceilinged room, bathing the cornicing above in a ghastly glow. I heard his fingers tapping expertly over the keys, then a pause, then a soft giggle, then more typing. This went on for some time.
I was most intrigued by this, so, having coughed loudly to remind him that I was still there, I asked, ‘What is it you are doing, Henry?’
‘I told you. Talking to my friend.’
Not wishing to display any further ignorance, as the young man was clearly slightly touched, I -simply said, ‘Perhaps you could show me?’
He glanced round, perplexed, but being a genial little fellow he soon acquiesced, hopping down from the desk bringing the computer with him, and placing its strangely warm weight unsteadily on the ever-increasing hillock of my tummy.
‘See, look. I send him a message, and then he sends me one back.’
I frowned at the fuzzing screen. It showed many lines of short text, most of which I could not begin to translate.
‘I’m talking to my friend, Christopher,’ he -explained. ‘And he’s about to send me a picture.’
Sure enough, just as he finished talking the computer emitted a strange blipping sound.
‘That’s it! It’s here.’ He clicked on a line and suddenly a large photo filled the screen. It showed a man dressed in a tweed suit, but where his head should have been, there was, in its stead, a very large shiny orange. This set off Henry into a stream of giggles. He was laughing so hard I had to
stop him.
‘Henry! Do be quiet. Why is this so funny, please?’
‘It’s Mr Carmicheal, our horrible Latin teacher. Christopher took a photo of him secretly in class on his phone, and then gave him an orange for a head!’ He was off again. I personally failed to see the funny side. Then suddenly he was struck
with inspiration.
‘Wait a minute. I can send him one of you!’
He switched on the main light and swiftly took a photo of me reclining on the sofa with a tiny mobile telephone (which he produced out of his corduroy trouser pocket). During the several minutes it took me to stop blinking, thanks to its miraculously efficacious flash, he had somehow managed to transfer the photo to the computer and send it to his little friend (I had no idea why or how he proceeded with this) apparently deeming my image humorous enough without the addition of any common or garden fruits, though I thought I looked rather dashing in the chosen shot. Almost immediately he got a message back: Christopher thought I was hilarious too. I felt vaguely troubled.
‘Where exactly is Christopher?’ I asked, fearfully.
‘He lives in Knightsbridge, stupid.’
It was all most extraordinary.
He seemed to sense my wonderment and asked in a more kindly tone, ‘Great-Uncle Charles, have you never been on MSN Messenger before?’
I tried to stall a little. ‘Well, erm, I can assure you that I am quite adept at searching computerised library catalogues (even this was not strictly true) but I can’t say that I have ever communicated directly …’ I trailed off.
His face was round with shock. ‘You mean … you don’t have an email address?’
‘Well, no.’
‘That’s so weird.’
Needless to say the little fellow had soon set me up with an account – sircharlesmaxwell-house@hotmail.com if you’d care to drop me a line. Quite the infant genius, I must say. I have high hopes for him. But most intriguingly he introduced me to something called a ‘BLOG’ upon which you can write as often and as much as you like, and everyone in the whole world can then read it. Extraordinary! It sounds the perfect outlet for my findings, and you never have to deal with publishers or rude editors ever again. [I’m still here – Ed.]. The idea that I could transmit my findings and observations to the world within a matter of moments was most exciting, and I started to feel a little more like my old self.
Henry was then called to his supper and afterwards hustled up to his bed, but he assured me he would teach me how to use the thing whilst I recuperated. It’s not too different from a typewriter, of course, and I feel sure I will pick it up quickly, although, at present, whenever I touch the keys, the picture on the screen seems to either disappear entirely or violently move from side to side. Most curious, but I am sure I will get to the bottom of it eventually.
Thus, after partaking of a light supper and downing a very large glass of Tarquin’s finest port (which I myself located in the study with the help of dear Henry), I was assisted by Mr and Mrs Maxwell-House II and their maid to the fourth guest bedroom, where, invigorated by the prospect of world domination, I soon settled back into a deep and contented slumber.
