The Phantom Tollbooth

 

The Phantom Tollbooth

This story, published in 1961, is about a young boy for whom the term ‘ennui’ might have been coined.

The first chapter begins: ‘There was once a boy named Milo who didn’t know what to do with himself – not just sometimes, but always.

When he was in school he longed to be out, and when he was out he longed to be in. On the way he thought about coming home, and coming home he thought about going. Wherever he was he wished he was somewhere else, and when he got there he wondered why he’d bothered. Nothing really interested him – least of all the things that should have.’

On returning from school one day he discovers that a mysterious exceptionally large parcel has been delivered to his bedroom. Unwrapping it he finds a magical tollbooth which he must assemble. 

There are signs and rules and coins for paying tolls and a beautifully detailed map, showing places Milo has never heard of. Deciding he has nothing better to do with his time he gets into his toy car and begins his journey through the Kingdom of Wisdom.

Tock the Watchdog

There is much wordplay and  many puns. For example, Tock the Watchdog literally has a clock in his body and can fly, because, of course, time flies. The Island of Conclusions is reached by jumping. There is a vehicle that goes without saying and the two princesses, Rhyme and Reason, have been banished from the kingdom so that confusion reigns.

Half a child, or .58

'Oh, we're just the average family, . . . mother  ,father and 2.58 children - and, as I explained, I'm the .58.'

Although this is a book primarily written for children, there is much in it to amuse adults.

Norton Juster (1929-2021) was an American architect and writer, His friend Jules Feiffer (1929-2025), drew the illustrations for The Phantom Tollbooth.

Painted snails

 

Painted snails

Cuban painted snail (Polymita picta)  

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Eastern Cuba is the only place in the world where the oriente tree snails or Cuban painted snails (Polymita picta) can be found. The large, colourful land snails are often referred to as ‘living jewels’ but they are critically endangered because their vibrantly coloured and patterned shells are attractive to shell collectors and traders. In addition, their habitat is under threat. Frequently the shells are used to make bright necklaces or unique decorative objects, appealing in the tourist trade.

The snails are protected under CITES (Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species) Capturing and selling them is illegal but poaching can be a profitable business. Legitimate sales require permits and proper documentation and there are bona fide sellers. One UK collection of seven shells was advertised at £160.  

Though not proven, one theory for the variation in colour and pattern is that the snails adapt their colouration to avoid predation. Colour can also be affected by diet – they eat a variety of materials, including lichen, moss, and fungi. They also feed on growths on tree bark, which helps to preserve the health of the trees.

In a bid to understand the genetics of these extraordinary molluscs, and to save the six known subspecies, research is being conducted in Cuba, at the Universidad de Oriente, and at Nottingham University.

In Cuba, Professor Reyes-Tur is attempting to breed the snails in his own home. They are flourishing but have not yet bred.

It is a strange contrast to the lives of most poor Cubans, where 89% of the population lives in extreme poverty in a country judged in 2023 as the poorest in Latin America.

That is no reason, however, to put aside the needs of one species. Research often reveals unexpected benefits.

Please

 

Please

Spare us a crumb, mister . . . please?

An alternative sequel

 

An alternative sequel

'Dance at Bougival' by Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919)

                                    Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

jenny-o challenged me to write an alternative ending to the musical box story, so here we go again! 

Here is the original story.

Here is the first sequel. 

Now read on for the alternative sequel.

 

When the music stopped, Marjorie and Henry sank to the floor, exhausted.

‘At last,’ Henry gasped.

‘I thought she was going to wind it up again,’ said Marjorie. ‘The hardest bit is dancing ever slower as the music winds down. It’s like moving in slow motion.’

‘She’ll be back tomorrow, and my poor feet are so sore,’ Henry grumbled. ‘How long is she staying?’

‘I don’t know but I think my jaw will break if I have to keep smiling,’ Marjorie sighed.

They sat for a while in silence, enjoying the peace and the stillness.

Henry stretched. ‘We’ve been *tripping the light fantastic for sixty years. It’s time we retired.’

‘If only we could escape,’ said Marjorie.

‘Leave it to me, my dear,’ said Henry, tapping the side of his nose.

The next day, when the little girl tried to shut the musical box, the lid resisted, and she had to leave it slightly ajar. It didn’t matter, because the music had stopped and in any case, there wasn’t enough room for the little dancers to do anything other than lie down. What she didn’t see was Henry lying on his back, bracing his feet against the lid.

When they were sure the child had left the room, Henry stripped off his  coat and tie and Marjorie loosened the belt of her floaty, many-layered dress. Together they strained at the lid. When they had prised it open sufficiently, Marjorie jammed her high-heeled dancing shoes into the opening to prevent it closing again.

Now all they had to do was work at making a gap large enough for them to slip through. The long years of dancing had made them fit and supple and strong. Marjorie stood on Henry’s back and forced her head through the gap. Once her shoulders were free, she arched her back and pushed upwards. To her delight, the lid sprang open and she was able to jump down to the table on which the musical box stood. Swiftly Henry followed and stood hand in hand with his partner, marvelling at the room they were in. All they had ever noticed as they spun in endless circles were the pictures on the walls.

 Now they could see bowls of flowers on every polished surface, and wonderful gilt-framed mirrors. Rich hangings echoed the colours in the upholstered armchairs and sofas and tall windows opened into a glorious garden. They walked over to the French windows, feeling themselves grow taller with each step.  

Marjorie squeezed Henry’s hand. ‘I had forgotten how lovely it was,’ she whispered. ‘It has been so long.’

Henry smiled. ‘Welcome home, my love. The spell at last is broken.’

‘But what about the little girl? She will wonder what has happened to us.’

‘Look in the musical box,’ said Henry and led Marjorie to the table. He picked up the box and wound the mechanism with the little golden key. As he lifted the lid, the music began, a different tune to the one they had danced to for so long. There, on the silvered floor, twirled and spun a dainty ballerina.

‘But that’s . . .,’ Marjorie stammered, but Henry hushed her. ‘It is her turn to dance now. Who knows how long she will continue?’

 

·        The expression ‘tripping the light fantastic’ is attributed to John Milton

Things that please

 

Things that please

Often, it’s the small details that make something different and special.

I discovered that we had almost run out of soap recently. I searched feverishly through my drawers, where I store soap bars, but there were none to be found, so I sent away for some.

The Little Soap Company started life in the Cotswolds. Its original name was the Naked Soap Company and the founder, Emma Heathcote-James, created her first soaps in her kitchen and started selling them at local farmers’ markets. That was more than fifteen years ago, and her business has gone from strength to strength. Her soaps can be found in supermarkets, pharmacies and online.

The soaps arrived securely packaged in recyclable materials. The scent, as I unpacked them, was sensational (yes, that’s a pun!) If one were susceptible to strong perfumes, the package might be overwhelming, with the concentration of many bars, although I didn’t find them so. Individually, the soaps are pleasantly perfumed.

I am aware of how scents can sometimes be too much. I bought a scent diffuser a few weeks ago that had such an overpowering smell – all natural ingredients! - that it made my throat sore. I had to put it at the end of the garden, and even at a distance of about twenty yards, I could still smell it.

The little thing on the box of soap that really made me smile was the packing tape, shown at the top and below.

It depicted scenes of bucolic bliss, bringing to mind the rolling Cotswold hills, the sparkling streams and the honeyed tones of the buildings.

                                    Essential information.

 I know that Alison in Devon, (once upon a time in Wales) makes her own soap. Does she sell locally, I wonder?

In my pocket

 

 

In my pocket

As I wander round the house, I often find things in odd places. I usually put them in my pocket, thinking I’ll put them away where they belong, wherever that may be. Frequently, things remain in my pocket for quite a while, especially if the garment is not worn for a few days. The next time I wear it I am surprised all over again by the contents.

The finger puppet above is the sole survivor of a set of five. I’ve always liked puppets, although I’m not very adept at manipulating string puppets. Hand and finger puppets are fun for children.

We have many, many steel tape measures. A few years ago, I became so irritated by their propensity for disappearing that I bought half a dozen in bright colours and assorted sizes – 3m, 5m, 8m, 10m – and the problem was alleviated to some extent.

This one normally lives in a small cabinet on a shelf next to my chair in the sitting room, so that when the cry goes up, ‘Have you seen a tape measure anywhere?’ I can lay my hands on one instantly. If it is not returned to my care immediately it may then go walkabout and ultimately find its way to my pocket.

Nail files are another thing that seem to travel.

Replacement brush head for the electric toothbrush. The packaging is difficult to open and takes tamper and theft-proof design to new heights.

A model of an RNLI minibus, evidence that we have had young visitors.

Finally, odd buttons appear from time to time, small ones, from blouses, larger efforts from trousers. Until I am near my button tin, they remain in my pocket.

Button tins have a fond place in my memory. As a small child I played with my mother’s button tin, handling, sorting, grouping. Some of the buttons in my own tin came from my long-ago coats or dresses or from my children’s garments.

The collection varies from week to week. 

 What's in your pocket, if you have one?

.Smile

                                                                     A wry smile

Nightcap

 

Nightcap

 

Man’s yellow silk taffeta cap, 18th century

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

A nightcap is a head covering worn in bed to keep the head warm and prevent hair from tangling. It was probably essential when houses were cold and winters colder. It may still be in regular use in some parts of the world.

Nightcap has other meanings, too. Traditionally, it’s a drink before bedtime, designed to soothe, calm and relax. It may be a warm milky drink, with or without the addition of a tot of brandy or whisky. Originally, it was an alcoholic drink, because alcohol warms and relaxes mind and body before sleep. The term ‘nightcap’ when referring to alcohol has been in use from the early eighteenth century

Friends of ours always used to have a brandy and ginger nightcap before bed. When their elder son was about to marry, they went to stay with his future in-laws, which can often be a tricky meeting.

At the end of a pleasant if rather abstemious evening, our friends, a very gregarious, companionable couple, were asked if they would like a nightcap and they readily accepted. They were immediately disappointed to be offered cocoa or something similarly innocuous. I think they were thankful to return home to their usual routine.

Many older people like to have a cup of tea before bedtime, and I believe it is offered in retirement homes and hospitals. Tea is a diuretic and not the wisest drink to take before retiring to bed, I would have thought. Lots of people have to get up during the night to visit the bathroom. Surely tea just makes matters worse?

A more modern application of nightcap is in a reusable drink cover looking something like a hair scrunchie. It is used to help prevent the spiking of drinks in clubs or at parties.

Image source

On guard . . .

 

On guard . . .

Image source

 . . . or, if you’re a sporting fencer, en garde. Either way, it means to be alert, and ready to respond to any threat of danger.

Not every living thing can be ready to defend itself against attack. Plants, for example, are unable to move away from threats and many have evolved  natural defences, like thorns, or irritating sap.

Saplings are particularly vulnerable to damage from animals which like to nibble fresh young shoots or soft bark. Deer, rabbits, domestic livestock, and horses can all stunt the growth of newly-planted trees, often killing them in the process.

Woodland management involves felling or clearing trees and shrubs and then planting desired species. 

Tree guards are used to keep them safe until they have grown strong enough to withstand the predations of animals.

                Established tree shelter with strongly growing young hazel.

There are several distinct types. Tree shelters are often used in forestry when there may be many hundreds of saplings to protect. They are basically solid plastic cylinders that encase the saplings, providing a microclimate and encouraging the plants to grow upwards. They are effective but need to be well ventilated and removed before they begin to restrict growth, typically after five years. There is concern about plastic pollution and research is ongoing to find cheap, effective alternatives.   

Plastic or wire mesh guards provide a similar measure of protection but with increased ventilation and light.

Spiral guards are useful for protecting saplings in areas where small animals, like rabbits and rodents are a problem. They are no defence against deer or livestock.

More substantial guards are available in welded wire mesh or steel.

The guards used locally are recyclable plastic cylinders. Sometimes we see them lying on the ground. That is the work of human nuisances, not wildlife, but most remain intact.

Young love

 

                                                    Young love

David ‘Pete’ Peterson and Julia Smethurst had known each other most of their lives. At school, they and their friends socialised as one large group, but as they grew older, they began to pair off and develop closer, more intimate friendships.

Inevitably, some relationships foundered on the rocks of jealousy, misunderstanding, immaturity, and incomprehension. Pete and Julia had a few arguments, but recognised that their desire to be together was strong enough to overcome their problems. They prided themselves on being able to retain their individuality and not become each other’s shadow. They knew their own minds, were confident and happy and respected each other.

As the end of their school days beckoned, they made plans for the future. They were too young to settle down and each had careers to make. They were fulfilling their long-held desires, or at least, making the first steps. Pete wanted to become an RAF officer, and Julia was determined to become a teacher. They were clear-sighted and ambitious and faced the future with optimism.

The night before they set off for their separate lives they realised how much they would miss each other. To this point, their social lives had revolved around school, family, and friends, though they had also pursued separate hobbies and interests. Now, they were going somewhere quite alien, where they knew no-one. The next few years would be consumed with new challenges, in training, and in professional interactions.

If it felt a little daunting, neither of them admitted it, telling themselves that nothing fundamental would change. There would be holidays, and they would learn from each other’s experiences and grow stronger together.

The Christmas after their first term was a heady, exciting time. Pete and Julia were overjoyed to be together again after weeks apart. Nothing had changed, though there were some expectations about how they should behave. Pete had to observe a certain dress code, while Julia’s lecturers encouraged all the students to treat them with casual respect and address them by their given names. They agreed that it was quite different to school days, and so it should be – they were young adults, now.

On Christmas Eve, Pete proposed to a flustered and overwhelmed Julia. They would not be able to marry for a few years, he stressed, but she understood and was happy to develop her own career in the meantime.

Their friends and families were excited for them and there was much back-slapping and hugging. Pete had to return to Cranwell before Julia’s vacation finished but they were already making plans for his next leave.

When next they met, Julia noticed a certain reserve in Pete’s manner, and a change in the way he spoke. His local accent was still apparent, but he used fewer dialect expressions. When she asked him about it, he explained that everyone’s delivery was changing subtly. As officers they had to make sure they could be understood by everyone, particularly when issuing orders.

The Jocks and the Geordies, the Welsh, and the Irish, the Eastenders and the East Anglians, all had to modify their speech. It was mainly a case of clear articulation, and not swallowing their words. Julia nodded. She had needed to adjust the way she spoke, too, so understood. Once or twice, she had used phrases which caused puzzlement and had had to explain what she meant.

She was surprised, the next time they met, when he asked her to stop calling him Pete and use his given name of David, as that was how he was known in his new life. Reluctantly, she agreed, but had misgivings about the way he was changing. She had met many of his new friends, and liked them, but he seemed overly impressed by some of the more privileged among them, though she could not understand why. She began to suspect that he was becoming ashamed of his humble origins, even though many of his new friends came from similar backgrounds. The misconception that they were all ‘toffs’ was laughable.

Later, when he started advising her how she should dress and what she should say when meeting his superiors, she realised that the boy she had known and fallen in love with was becoming an insufferable snob. She returned his ring and wished him well in his future, though privately she thought his progress would be blighted by his lack of confidence and self-awareness.

If Julia was bitter, she tried not to show it, but she made no effort to maintain contact with her old college friends once they had all graduated and taken up their new posts. They were left to wonder, and to hope that she would find happiness and fulfilment.

This short story is based on an erstwhile friend of mine. It’s fair to say that her heart was broken, but not her spirit. I never did discover what became of her, or ‘Pete.’

Names have been changed.

 

 

 

Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick

 

Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick

                        Corkscrew hazel (Corylus avellana ‘Contorta’)

The nuts grow singly or in clusters of two to four.

I often find myself singing Randy Newman’s ‘It’s a jungle out there’ as I struggle out of the front door. However, today, Barry has set to and cleared much of the rampant greenery, so that, tomorrow, the grocery delivery can be accomplished without the aid of a machete.

                                Enchanting lambs' tails in spring

Directly opposite the front door is Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick, a twisted hazel tree now more recognisably known by the name of Corkscrew hazel (Corylus avellana ‘Contorta’)

I wrote about it here.

Many of the corkscrew twigs were sacrificed for the greater good of delivery personnel everywhere. I doubt the nuts will ripen, but they may. Cobnuts are delicious – soft and sweet!

The squirrels love the nuts and carry them everywhere, not always for immediate consumption, so that we have small thickets popping up in odd places where they have cached them.

My parents gave us this tree not long after we moved into this house. We’ve lived here fifty years and the tree must have been several years old when it came to us, so it is now a splendid specimen, though not at its optimum height of five metres (sixteen point four feet) as we trim it twice every year. It also throws up straight stems, or suckers, which have to be cut out. Corkscrew hazel is usually grafted onto a straight hazel rootstock. The suckers can take over, and then the tree will no longer ‘contort.’

               'untimely ripped from' the tree  (apologies to Shakespeare!)

I smiled at the information I found on the website, ‘Treesonline,’ some of which I have copied and pasted below.

Considered slow growing so it will take its sweet time getting to the expected 5-metre height over 10-20 years. Can be left alone to twist and contort as a specimen tree or trained along a trellis. Due to the twisting nature of the tree, expect it to be a little naughty and grow where it wants to so you will need to keep an eye on it and tuck it back into your trellis work. Time outs, not allowing it to watch TV and stopping pocket money are all methods that are completely ineffective in training your tree.’

Once Corylus Avellana 'Contorta' drops its leaves in Autumn, it will reveal its very interesting twisted shape. Considered fully UK winter hardy (unless we have no Jet stream from the USA whatsoever and we get temperatures less than minus 15-degree centigrade, you know how possessive those Americans can be). Just before Spring expect it to burst into life with catkins making a stunning appearance. These form into edible nuts.

Corylus Avellana 'Contorta' Aka Harry Lauders Walking Stick has so many outstanding properties that the RHS (Royal Horticultural Society not right-hand side for those not in the know) have given it the AGM (Award of Garden Merit, not Annual General Meeting....ah the joy of acronyms)

Be prepared to open the box and think your tree is poorly! Not quite your average sales pitch but this is perfectly normal and part of the charm of the tree. The whole tree including the leaves are contorted and twisted (maybe the clue was in the name!)

I love this tree at all seasons of the year. It is a reminder, should I need one, of my parents, and my Kentish childhood.

 

Cannot access

 

Cannot access . . .

 ‘Always smiling’ is a blog that I have been following for some time but which is now unavailable to me.

Chris's post today was entitled, ‘What did I say?’ and stated that she has lost some bloggers who always used to comment.

I can read the ‘headlines’ but when I click to read the whole post I get the following message:

‘This site can’t be reached’

Scans reveal nothing.

I’ve reported it as inaccurate blocking - there is nothing harmful in Chris’ blog. I know she sometimes gets upset by things beyond her control and I’m sorry this has happened, but cannot contact her to explain. Is anyone else experiencing the same?

Blogger is unhelpful . . .

Greengages from the garden

 

Greengages from the garden

                                Greengage blossom in the rain

Greengages (Prunus domestica italica) are closely related to plums, but are smaller, rounder and, when ripe, sweeter. They are believed to have originated in Iran and were first brought to England in the 18th century by way of France.

Identifying labels of the tree(s) were lost in transit from France to England, to the home of Sir William Gage, near Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. The resulting fruits, which were pale green, were referred to as Gage’s plums, eventually becoming known simply as greengages.

                                    Greengages on the tree

In France, greengages are called ‘Reine Claude.’ The plum was introduced to France during Francis I’s reign and was named ‘Reine Claude’ to honour the wife of King Francis I. Queen Claude was called ‘la bonne reine,’ the good Queen.

Claude of France (1499-1524) was reputed to be a gentle, kind, and virtuous queen, more intent on her charitable works and less interested in politics than some other queens had been. Despite Francis I’s many infidelities, she was a faithful wife to him, bearing seven children. She was married at the age of fourteen, and died when she was twenty-four.

It looks as though a bird may have sampled the gage at the top left! It made no difference - it tasted wonderful!

Propeller?

  Propeller?

Our cactus flowered again. It flowered at the beginning of June.

Obviously it has appreciated the high temperatures in the conservatory, which at times have reached 40˚C.

Viewed from above, it resembles a propeller.

Words for Wednesday

Words for Wednesday

The words this week were supplied by Charlotte

include, lick, saunter, hand, berry, apples

respect, elbow, fork, measure, knife, dream 

and Charlotte's colour of the month, purple

Nonsense from me . . .

Cold, wet nose,

Licks my hand, includes my fingers,

Luscious from apples and berry juice.

Drips saunter to my elbow,

He has great respect for me.

He dreams, he watches,

He measures the distance

Knife and fork must travel

To the pie

And then to my mouth.

Good dog!

The sequel

 

The sequel

 Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

jenny-o commented on the musical box story, ‘I’ll bet that couple swore under their breath at being so rudely interrupted.’

That made me wonder, so I wrote a sequel. It developed rather more gloomily than I intended.

 The Little Dancers

As the lid descended and the music ceased, the couple stepped apart.                                            

Marjorie stamped her foot. ‘Every time,’ she complained, ‘Every time, just as we’re getting the steps almost right, that wretched child slams the door on us and the music stops.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Henry said. ‘We can practise without the music.’

 ‘You mean we could count the steps, one, two, three, four, twist, turn, glide?’ she scoffed. ‘Huh, I can’t see that helping. You can’t keep time even when the music plays AND you keep treading on my toes. It’s a wonder I can still walk, let alone dance.’

Not for the first time, Henry wondered what he had ever seen in Marjorie. He had been captivated by her elegance and her beauty, but all he could now register was her screeching voice.

He regretted – oh, how he regretted! – the contract he had made with her. It had stated quite clearly that they must remain together until the musical box stopped working. That had been sixty years ago, and they were weary of pirouetting on the mirrored floor. The box was also showing its age. The pins on the cylinder sometimes missed the teeth that made the music, and the key to wind the mechanism was having to be wound ever tighter.

 Henry had heard ‘overwound’ once or twice recently, when the little girl had been turning the key. An older woman, her grandmother, perhaps, had gently admonished the child to be careful or the music would stop playing.

 How Henry longed for that day to dawn, but then he wondered what would happen after that. With a jolt that made him gasp, he finally recognised that this box was his existence, the one he had embraced the day he and Marjorie had signed the contract. He and she were joined for eternity.

There was no escape. There would never be any more music, just the gathering gloom, and an occasional glimpse of daylight when a stranger opened the box to see the little dancers with their painted smiles and wonder why the music had stopped.