COMPETITION

Old Roman dozen

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 2153 you were given 12 words or phrases to incorporate into a plausible piece of prose, in any order.

I owe this competition to Mr Patrick Leigh Fermor, who kindly sent me transla- tions of the meanings of the Latin nouns in the Gender Rhymes at the end of Dr Kennedy's Latin (or 'Eating', as we lovable rascals used to deface it) Primer. The words were selected from sections 505 and 506. `And masculine is found to be/ Hadria, the Adriatic Sea' is one rhyme which, though it may not have furthered my career, has remained hauntingly memorable.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £25 each. I was attracted by plausibility and variety of approach. The bottle of the Macallan Single Malt Highland Scotch whisky goes to Andrew Brison.

The fourth king, who fell behind due to his large paunch, travelled on foot, staff in hand, carrying a gift of a large sapphire, and bringing the finest linen. A king whose knowledge of astronomy was rudimentary, he had mistaken the Great Bear for the Star of Bethlehem. Arriving late, he found the stable door hanging on one broken hinge. Inside he saw a calf taking milk from the udder of an old cow and a tired donkey that lay among discarded grain, claimed by mouse and weevil. Disappointed, he moved to an inn, filled with common people, on the very margin of Herod's kingdom but there the wine tasted like poison. Looking out at the night sky, he noticed that the wondrous star had gone, but he fancied he heard the echo of a distant choir, not unlike the music of the spheres.

(Andrew Brison)

Hurrying past the guest-rooms, the housekeeper cried to the staff, 'More linen for the Jupiter and d pillows for the Great Bear.' Then, sidestepping the butler's paunch, she continued haranguing the staff within earshot: 'These guests aren't common people to put up with lumpybeds, willing to make naught of a single weevil, risk poison from the oysters. Standards,

standards.' Her vehemence, magnified by the powerful echo in the corridor, terrified the kitchen-boy into flight. Forgetting which hinge he had been sent to oil, he hurtled downstairs, upending Milady's maid who was travelling in the opposite direction and scattered the stones from the sapphire necklace she was carrying. Her screams provoked the dogs to furious barking, woke the gardener surreptitiously dozing on the margin of the lake, caused the milkmaid to lose her grip on Daisybell's udder and Daisybell to bolt, and drove the swineherd to fall into the swill.

(Fergus Porter) Basil Ransome-Davies walked gloomily into the public bar of the Great Bear.

`Usual poison, Bazza?' one of the tattooed staff enquired, reaching for a glass, a task ren- dered difficult by his ample paunch, The retired banker shuddered. Save us from the common people, he thought.

`Yes,' he sighed, fingering the margin of his favourite linen tie.

Wassup, Baz?' asked the barman, passing him his drink. 'You got a boat like a weevil with flu. Lemme guess, it's them Speccy things you do, innit?'

`Since you ask, yes.'

`Not won for a bit, then?' `Two weeks. And what hope have I with words like sapphire and udder? This is a cruel echo of Competition 2141: I mean 'corgi' and 'cordite', for God's sake. My reputation could hinge on this one.'

`Just what that Chris Tingley geezer said yes- terday when he was talking about you.'

(Leigh Hooper) It was the worst sort of country-house party. Standards had slipped since my last visit — the monogrammed linen had long disappeared, the famous walled gardens had gone to seed, and the manor was a sad echo of its former glory. The other guests were appalling, escaping the description 'common people' by a very close margin: minor celebrities, second-rank politi- cians — you know the sort of thing. Only the presence of Rupert's exuberant uncle from Russia, affectionately known to one and all as `Great Bear' due to his enormous paunch, relieved the tedium. The kitchen staff were mutinous (some dispute over wages, apparently) and the food was absolute poison: bread infest- ed with weevil, some disgusting Hampshire ver- sion of a haggis — an udder filled with minced pork. But as so often, these things hinge on the weather, and that could not be faulted — day after day of sapphire-blue skies.

(H.C. Elvin)

Transylvania! This is the very margin of Europe, perhaps beyond, judging by the tales the com- mon people told me at the inn — of vampires and a she-wolf on a crag, howling as her young suckle at her udder. My coachman is a tall, pallid fellow with a slight paunch, clad wholly in black linen, wearing a sapphire ring. His staring silence unnerves me. The night is starless, save for the Great Bear, but I can make out a castle's jagged battlements. I alight and knock at an ancient door. Something is creeping across my hand — a hideous weevil, which I brush away in panic, fear- ful lest it poison me. At last the door creaks open on its hinge, and the echo sounds across the val- ley. Amazed, I see no footman, but the coach- man again.

`I seek Count Dracula,' I stammer.

`I am he. You can't get the staff these days.' (Nicholas Hodgson)