Following the revelation that William Shakespeare is a thief,
plagiarist and cat murderer, but now stuffed and a bit tipsy on free gluhwein
and apple streusel, the audience return to their seats, and the cast resume
their Victorian ghost story telling performance.
Ptolemy Pheasant arranges his lengthy tail feathers in the
armchair, decides it is all too uncomfortable and begins to relate the story
of his ancestor, Ptolemy Bysshe Keats Pheasante, standing up.
‘Ptolemy Bysshe Keats Pheasante, like all his ancestors
before him and those after, was a romantic, a charmer, an appreciator of all
things beautiful,’ begins Ptolemy. ‘And he chose to express his sensibilities
via the medium of poetry, mostly because it allowed him to waft around in
frilly shirts and avoid doing any hard graft that might get his wings dirty. As
with all young pheasants of his time, he travelled abroad on tour, collecting
artefacts and treasures from fine European cities, to bring home and inspire
him to write the sort of poetry that would immortalise him in the English canon
for centuries to come.’
Ptolemy rolls his eyes a bit. He has actually read some of
his ancestor’s poetry (in the spirit of doing some background research to get
in touch with some authentic performance vibes) and it all seemed a lot of
effort for very little gain.
‘However,’ he continues, ‘Ptolemy Bysshe Keats soon came to
realise that mere objects are not the best of creative muses. And he realised
this on the evening he attended a ball and met the delightful and delectable lady
hen, Miss Daisy Frizzell, who immediately captured his heart and mind, and
ignited in him the sort of instincts that are not mentioned in polite society.
He set about wooing Miss Frizzell with flowery versus and elegant letters, and
although he was basically incapable of stringing together two coherent
sentences, let alone a rhyming couplet or villanelle, Daisy did not doubt his
ardour or intent, and so the relationship began to blossom.
‘Aaaah,’ went the audience.
‘However,’ continued Ptolemy, ‘there was another who was
hell-bent on gaining the love, and, ultimately, the hand in marriage of Miss
Frizzell. And that was a haughty ptarmigan from the next town who went by the
name of Byronic Wastrel, and who generally stomped around like he owned the
place. Strictly speaking he did – well, his family did – and his father often
told him that ‘One day, son, all this will be yours,’ whilst advising him to
also a) find a nice young lady with whom to settle down and b) avoid getting
himself shot in the high season.
One day, Ptolemy Bysshe Keats was entertaining Miss Frizzell
in the meadows. It was Winter – the grass was frosted and the little pond whose
surface usually rippled in a gentle breeze was frozen solid. Daisy, muffled warmly against the cold, was
sat upon a tussock eating Turkish Delight (like you do) and Ptolemy Bysshe
Keats was serenading her with his latest poetic effort. It was a simple verse,
but to be honest, Daisy was easily pleased and was happy to listen but mostly concentrate on the
enjoyment of the Turkish Delight.
Ptolemy Bysshe Keats was just about to embark on the third
verse of his epic work, which was entitled ‘Three Hundred and Twelve Things I
Do Love About Miss Frizzell’, when a shout echoed across the meadows. It was
Byronic Wastrel.
‘Oh no,’ sighed Daisy. ‘It’s Byronic. He’s been visiting me
all week. He wants to marry me, you know. He’s already asked Papa, and Papa has
agreed it would be a most suitable and beneficial match for both families.’ And
she nibbled on a fresh piece of Turkish Delight.
‘You’re going to marry that Wastrel?’ said Ptolemy Bysshe
Keats, the shocking revelation halting him in his recitation. ‘But surely, my
love, are we not meant to be together?’
Daisy thought whilst she was chewing. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘of
course, I find you enormously attractive and I very much enjoy our times
together as friends. But don’t you see it would be impractical for us to marry,
what with you being a penniless poet and all?’
‘But…but…I’m not actually penniless,’ said Ptolemy Bysshe
Keats. ‘I mean, I’m not hugely wealthy either, but I have enough to provide us
with a modest but comfortable living.’
Daisy smiled. ‘In theory that sounds wonderful,’ she says.
‘However, I want to live in a manner to which I have yet to become accustomed
and Byronic Wastrel is enormously wealthy….’
‘You’d marry for money over love?’ said Ptolemy Bysshe
Keats.
Daisy considered the matter for all of four seconds. ‘Yes,’
she said. ‘I would.’
Before Ptolemy Bysshe Keats could register his shock at how
fickle his beloved had become, the cad that is Byronic Wastrel had arrived and
was standing, legs akimbo, wings on hips, staring at him with a steely glint in
his beady ptarmigan eyes.
‘Pheasante,’ said Wastrel, ‘I believe that is my fiancée you
are consorting with. Desist, sir, or else.’
‘Or else what?’ said Ptolemy Bysshe Keats, starting to feel
more than a little betrayed and hard done by.
‘This,’ said Wastrel, and he marched up to Ptolemy Bysshe
Keats and smacked him around the face with a fine leather glove, probably
crafted by a descendant of Shakespeare’s father, who knows? ‘I challenge you to
a duel, Sir,' he continued. 'To save the honour of my fiancée, Miss Frizzell.’
‘A duel?’ said Ptolemy Bysshe Keats. ‘I’m not going to fight
a duel. I have too much poetry to write.’
‘Ah ha!’ said Wastrel. ‘A coward, eh? Sir, I demand to be
satisfied. I have pistols with me and I suggest we settle the matter now.’
And then, because time is of the essence and the Lady Author
realises she is rambling on somewhat, Ptolemy Bysshe Keats found himself
standing back to back with Byronic Wastrel, holding a pistol and feeling
slightly put out that he had been railroaded into a life and death situation and
he hadn’t yet perfected the art of haiku.
‘Ten paces, sir!’ barked Byronic. ‘Then turn and shoot like
a pheasant. Commence NOW!’
And off they went.
One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…..CRACK!
Some of you might be thinking there has been a spot of cheating occurring, and someone has fired their pistol three paces too early. But the crack you heard was not that
of gunfire. Oh no. It was of an idiot pheasant not looking where he was going, marching
out onto the frozen pond and falling through the ice!
And because he was wearing his usual garb of pantaloons and
frilly shirt, and not the nice thick woolly winter coat, hats and mittens one would normally wear mid-Winter, Ptolemy Bysshe Keats not
only drowned immediately, he felt bloomin’ freezing whilst he was doing it.
‘Damn you, sir!’ shouted Byronic Wastrel when he realised
the fate of Ptolemy Bysshe Keats Pheasante. And what had the potential to be an
exciting dramatic event turned into a bit of a damp squib. Even Daisy barely
looked up from polishing off her box of Turkish Delight.
‘Heavens!’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘What a way to go.’
‘At least it was quick,’ says Ptolemy, closing his
storybook. ‘And explains why I don’t like getting my feet cold. Must be a
genetic memory thing.’
‘What ARE you whittering on about,’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Genetic memory, my fluffy backside. What nonsense. Now shoo with you. We’ve
still three more ghost stories to hear.’
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