Ruth and Horace by Johnny Barclay

R: Frost on the eiderdown this morning.

H.     Chilly for early March but quite cosy all the same.

R.     It actually crackled, Horace, and some fell on the floor. Not what I’d call cosy.

H.     Remember igloos, Ruth.  Eskimos living in ice boxes.  Generates warmth, I’m told,  though I’ve never tried it.

R.     Well, we seem to be making a good fist of it here.  But, Horace, we’re not eskimos – at least I’m not – and whatever you might say and, excuse the language, this  cottage is bloody cold … always has been.

H.     Wrap up warm and put more layers on, that’s what Mother and Father would have   said.  No central heating then, so why now? Freezing by all       accounts that winter of 1932 was when we came into the world.  But never done us  any harm, and here we are nearly ninety years later as fit as fleas.  Well we are, aren’t we?

R.      But Mam and Dad knew how to stoke the boiler and light the fire and stock up with coal and chop the wood – all you do is drink tea and ale and read about Gladstone and Disraeli.  It may warm you up but it doesn’t do much for me, does it?

H.     More interesting than your Industrial Revolution, Trades Unions, Suffragettes and all that.  Too much shedding of tears.  Be a saint, would you, and fetch me a spoon for my tea – and perhaps switch on a bar of fire while you’re about it. Mittens only go so far in the hand-warming department. Why are you looking at me like that?

R.      Remember teaching those early morning lessons at school? It was bloody freezing.  Here come Castor and Pollux the youngsters would whisper, and worse than that at times.    Ever give them a clout with your ruler?

H.     Not often and then only to sharpen them up … then back to Henry VIII and a wife  or two – rather more fun than your beloved Harold Wilson with his mac and pipe.

R.     Could do with a few more like him now – better than living dangerously   in our old age with bloody Boris.

H.     Mother and Father always said we should live dangerously – Take risks! More Churchill and less Chamberlain.

R.      “Lighten our darkness we beseech thee, O Lord, and of thy great mercy” –  may I find something more powerful than a forty watt bulb in the cupboard.

H.      More Cranmer and less of the light bulb for my taste, but isn’t it better to  live it up a bit rather than die of boredom or loneliness.  That’s what Mother and Father thought, any road.

R.       Here’s your pipe and tobacco, Horace, and your glasses too.  They were   hiding under your chair. What would you do without me?

H.      I tell you how you could lighten my darkness a bit.

R.       How?

H.       Pour me a beer, that’s how.  With luck that will see me through till lunchtime.