BUST UP!

Hello, and welcome to December's edition of 'The Autolycan'.  This one starts with a headline in The Independent which my son sent me some time ago.  I was much taken by it, but couldn't immediately think of a suitable back story.  You may think I still haven't of course, but I hope not and that you will enjoy and share the story.  And a Merry Christmas!

BUST UP!

Town builds statue to local hero – and takes 40 years to notice it's the wrong man

The Independent

I've never been accused of having brain cells to spare, but then you don't need many to tell when Shreeves disapproves. On that particular morning he raised not merely one but both eyebrows when he brought my tea, a sure sign that I was in for Arctic levels of froideur and all the warm bonhomie of a shoal of peckish barracuda. I forced what I hoped might be taken as a smile.

'What ho, Shreeves!'

'Good morning, sir' he replied carelessly, and even in that first moment I could detect an abundant and copious absence of mateyness.

'Shall I run your bath, sir?' he enquired in tones which suggested he'd like to fill it with boiling oil, or whatever it was that fellows stuck inside castles used to pour on other fellows stuck outside.

Two or three gulps of the brown restorative later I realised he was eyeing me in the manner of all those barracuda homing in on a particularly appetising anchovy.

'I did not find the likeness flattering, sir' he pronounced 'and had I been granted the opportunity duty would have compelled me to advise against the choice of that tie with the blue worsted.'

I mean to say! I thought the roguish glint in the Schuster eye lent the portrait a kind of raffish charm, but 'duty would have compelled me' is pretty much Shreeves' top level of outrage. Anything higher than that and he would simply blow up and a man would have to come round to mend him.

The funereal mood turned yet more wretchedly morose when the letters arrived. I swear Shreeves had deliberately placed the one in Great Aunt Elspeth's unmistakeably strident hand on the top. If only Napoleon had had GAE up his sleeve at Waterloo Shreeves would now be wafting in on a wave of garlic with one of those tiny cups of disgusting coffee that are all the rage at those pavement cafés they go in for. Which might in fact have been preferable to the relish with which he presented the poisonous f and b's letter. I opened with a sense of foreboding so deep that it approached fiveboding. It concerned my venomous ward Archie who had been staying with his doting step grandmother – the aforesaid GAE – in Stygian gloom in that decaying wreck of hers in Sussex. How this most striking of blots on childhood had made it this far in life beats me, but a tenth birthday for the little blister was apparently looming and GAE had decreed that I should present myself in joyous raiment for the ghastly obsequies. There was to be no escape from her bleak command that I should kick up the Schuster heels at this desolate merrymaking.

When I brokenly relayed the news to Shreeves he showed rather less sympathy towards me than that Dracula bounder did when sinking a fang or two into some comely neck.

'It will afford you the opportunity, sir, to renew your acquaintance with Miss Alicia' he exulted. I'd never previously detected anything so close to euphoria in those sonorous tones of his.

Alicia was Archie's older but equally repellent sister and I had tried for years to treat her with a kind of rapturous disdain This did nothing to stop the pestilence setting her cap at me with grizzly predictions about the sunny idyll which awaited me if only I allowed my true feelings to show. I've had unpaid and hungry creditors who were a lot less tenacious.

My normally jaunty and jolly manner was bereft of all jaunt and joll as Shreeves rattled us cheerily down to Sussex in the old jalopy, and I was becoming increasingly envious of that pilgrim cove who kicked up such a childish fuss about a little thing like sinking up to the ears in his Slough of Despond.

GAE welcomed me with an icy snarl, which grew only colder and fiercer once I had gritted the lips sufficiently to bestow the required peck on the antediluvian cheek. I realised with horror that soothing words of comfort were required for the recent departure of the universally detested Great Uncle Wilfred, the only decent thing that gruesome old fossil had ever done. The only person ever to bask in the warm glow of Great Uncle W's esteem was, unaccountably, that prize affliction, Archie.

Normally, Shreeves would hove reassuringly into view at a time like this, dispensing general solace to soothe a troubled spirit and a nudge in the general direction of le mot juste to lob at the old firedrake, but he was nowhere to be seen.

At this juncture my detestable ward rushed up and bit me on the right shin, occasioning such a rare display of approval from the Medusa like great aunt that the left shin instantly met a similar fate. In what passed for life, Great Uncle W had forbidden all chastisement whatsoever of Archie and clearly didn't regard death as any reason to mend his ways. GAE and Alicia merely simpered, whereupon arch-fiend Archie pressed home his advantage with a couple of well aimed kicks to the ankles.

This was actually going slightly better than I had expected, but things took a turn for the worse when Alicia drew me to one side under the pretext of saving me from further attack.

'Lambkin! Oh, my lambkin!' she blushed. I mean, dash it, how's a fellow meant to handle a girl who blithers on mawkishly like this?

'What ho,' I replied, with probably less list than I had ever previously endowed the expression. I braced myself for the usual nonsense about overflowing cornucopias, milk and honey, wedding bells and so on. I wasn't disappointed. Well, I was, but you know what I mean.

Then, when I was at my lowest and feeblest, this daughter of Jezebel sprung it on me.

'We had the reading of Great Uncle's will yesterday' she said 'and Archie is to inherit the entire estate on his 50^th birthday. But his guardian must be persuaded that he has shown proper respect to the poisonous old devil throughout his life.'

My crest fell heavily and lay bruised at my feet.

'Great Aunt Elspeth thinks that you should erect a bust to that awful man in the boy's name, and that this will show the necessary respect. If you do I need hardly say that I shall never speak to you again.'

My crest immediately perked up at this as I contemplated the glittering prize to be had from putting up this blessed bust – even though I would then be complicit in my repulsive ward inheriting a fortune. But then I furrowed the brow pretty mercilessly and taxed the protesting grey matter within with questions about what would happen if I refused. GAE and Archie would badger me at every turn, the grey matter intoned. What's more, it confided, I would then be Alicia's hero and she would swoon at the very sight of me. Neither the grey matter nor I had the courage to think what might happen after that.

A Schuster has his pride, and I forebore from putting the dilemma to Shreeves for fully ten minutes. Eventually I had no option. He listened intently, occasionally offering insights such as 'most distressing' or 'a very pretty conundrum, sir.' Then the dreaded 'I fear no efficacious solution readily presents itself, sir.'

I summoned as much hauteur as the circs allowed.

''Most distressing' cuts no ice with me, Shreeves. I expect suggestions in the morning.' I had to exact some retribution for his dismissive remarks about the portrait and can be wounding at need.

I stared at him coolly the next day when he shimmied in with tea.

'Well?'

His smile, I felt, was supercilious.

'I judge that a little subterfuge on your part might satisfactorily resolve the difficulty, sir. But the proposition must be implemented in full. I fear that a partial execution would not achieve the required eventuality'

I was all ears.

'Well, say on, Shreeves!'

'I wonder, sir, if you might commission plans for two busts, one of the recently deceased gentleman, and another of a deceased thief and vagabond of somewhat similar mien. I believe that getting your great aunt to approve the plans for the bust of your great uncle would cause little difficulty. Despite his youth I think it vital that your ward should also signify his approval of the plans.'

I nodded. 'But......'

It is imperative, sir, that the sculptor whom you commission then experiences some delay

in creating the work. Perhaps it would be best if his tormented soul struggled doggedly with certain aesthetic concerns.'

'Why so, Shreeves?'

'I fear that your great aunt's memory is failing, sir. I am inclined to believe that a delay of at most a year or so while the sculptor wrestles with his artistic difficulties would be sufficient for your great aunt to be uncertain about the accuracy of the likeness. I further judge that Master Archibald is of an age where he finds the accuracy or otherwise of the likeness immaterial.'

'And then......?'

'You might then instruct the sculptor to proceed with the likeness of the rogue and vagabond, sir, which should then be publicly displayed. This should be sufficient for Miss Alicia to abandon that interest in you which I believe to be unwelcome.'

'That's all well and good' I began, but that means that that frightful pill Archie will inherit a fortune. Or have you forgotten that bit?'

Pointed, I thought.

'I have a suggestion which I believe might pre-empt that outcome, sir.'

'Shreeves?'

'I propose, sir, the addition of a time capsule to the bust, to be opened at a public ceremony forty years from now on the day Master Archibald expects to inherit his fortune. I am of the view that the more people who are present at this ceremony, the better.'

I couldn't for the life of me see what the great manipulator was driving at, and perhaps unwisely said so.

'The time capsule, should contain letters of unimpeachable authority from the family's solicitors, stating that the likeness is not of your great uncle, but instead of a rogue and vagabond. The approvals from your great aunt and in particular from your ward should also be evident. Under the terms of your great uncle's will it will then be impossible for Master Archibald to inherit given such clear evidence of his disrespect.'

'Masterly, Shreeves! So what happens to the estate?'

'I have taken the liberty, sir, of examining the will in some detail and have discovered that should Master Archibald fail to inherit the entire estate is to be settled on his guardian.'

'You mean.......you mean.......me?'

'Exactly as you say, sir. You.'

'But......'

'I have one further suggestion to make, sir, and that is that you should also deposit your recent portrait in the time capsule, with a postcard addressed to Master Archibald. It might perhaps read 'Presented by Mr Bertram Schuster in compensation for the loss of your inheritance.' I consider that a note added in your own hand reading 'sorry it's not a good likeness' might be suitably cutting in its ambiguity, whilst exacting a measure of revenge.'

I'm not sure if I gibbered before I jabbered or if it was the other way round. An ambitious and wholly ill-advised attempt at a yammer failed utterly.

'Shr...Shreeves....' I stammered incoherently, 'you're a marvel.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Pity we've got to wait for revenge though for... what... erm... well, about...'

'Forty years, sir.'

'Is it, by jove? Well, a dashed long time....'

'Indeed, but I have often heard it said that revenge is a dish best eaten cold. Will that be all, sir?'

ANAGRAM CORNER

MR PRESIDENT ELECT

LECTERN DISTEMPER!

COD WARS - AND COD PEACE

Hello again, and welcome to November's edition of The Autolycan.

Strange story this month - apparently cod speak in regional accents.  Did you know that?  This matters, especially if you're a cod, because it means that when they migrate - as they do to find cooler waters - they may not understand the mating sounds other shoals make, threatening their ability to breed.  So, you should take the following short story very seriously.  Incidentally, and particularly for my American friends, the section of gibberish in the middle is a poor attempt to reproduce the Geordie accent which is prevalent in and around Newcastle upon Tyne.  You won't understand it, but then again, neither do I.

COD WARS – AND COD PEACE

Cod speak with regional accents, scientists believe

                                                                                                                Daily Telegraph

A beautiful Spring was giving way to what promised to be a long hot Summer in the Bay of Biscay. The Bay was dotted with picturesque little fishing boats and pleasure craft; the days were growing long, lazy and idyllic. This was the time of year for the phytoplankton to bloom, for the anchovy to multiply, and for the cod to spawn. But this year they hadn't. No cod had spawned. None. Some said it was because it was too hot.

Had you chatted with the sailors, fishermen and tourists on board the craft, you would quickly have realised that not a single one of them had any idea of the dire straits into which the cod world was plunging deep below them. To understand how dire, you need look no further than a bright and attractive young Atlantic cod named Codelia.

Codelia was a young, trim, shapely fish with a bubbly personality who was much sought after as a mate by some of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of the Bay. Like most of her girlfriends Codelia lived for the weekends. The working week was humdrum – swim, feed, swim, feed – but on Friday and Saturday nights she came vibrantly alive. There was music, dancing, laughter, glamour – and on a night such as this if the mood was right and the boys charming and attentive, who knew what might develop? One thing, she told herself delightedly, can lead to another, and another.... until spawning was only a heartbeat, albeit a frantic one, away!

On this particular Friday, though, she felt more lethargic than usual as she sat in front of her dressing table mirror. It had been unusually hot all week and she was tired, but she was sure that once she met her friends and felt that familiar arousal of her spirits which invariably came with the first drink or two her effervescence would return. It always did.

Her partner, Codfrey, swam in mopping his brow and she flashed him a brief smile as she went through the routine of choosing what she was going to wear and applying just the right shades of make up. It was working. The words of Amor Eterna floated through her brain. That indefinable tingle in her fins was definitely there. Perhaps..... perhaps, tonight would be the night. She would make Codfrey so proud.

'I feel pretty, oh so pretty,

I feel pretty and witty and bright.......

'Codfrey! Are you ready?'

But Codfrey hadn't moved – he lay slumped against a convenient undercurrent.

'Codfrey! What are you doing?'

'Sorry, love, I'm knackered. It's too hot. You go and enjoy yourself, I'll just stay here.'

'Codfrey!'

But he was not to be persuaded. The following night she made an extra special effort, but if anything he was even more lifeless. What could she do? She decided that on the following Friday she would take a firm hand. She'd throw a party for him. There would be cocktails – he was inordinately fond of Pina Codadas - and dancing. He loved the Pa-Cod-Oble, but their real favourite had always been the flamencod. How beautiful she would look in her long, flowing, ruffled skirt, and how handsome and sexy he always looked in his close fitting trouser! Surely this time.........

She snuggled up to him, her tail caressing his middle dorsal fin, just the way he liked it. She nuzzled his pectoral playfully with her upper jaw.

But when Codfrey remained unmoved, she took a momentous decision.

'I must go North' she determined, 'to cooler waters, perhaps there I'll find a new mate.'

She set off the very next day. She had no real idea where she was going, but soon came across a shoal of cod not far to the West of a long coastline. She approached with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

'Buenas noches' she began 'Viengo de España....'

The males leered at her while the females looked sullen. One of the larger males swam up to her. He smelt oddly of garlic, she thought, but she had to admire his ability to keep a Gauloise alight, even under water. He removed the accordion from his neck, adjusted his beret and swam closer still.

'Bonjour, ma petite,' he murmured as he executed a perfect bow and kissed the back of her fin, 'I am - 'ow you say – enchanté - to make your acquaintance.'

He held her with his eyes – no easy matter when you've got one on each side of your head.

'Charmante. Absolument charmante. Peut-être, même séduisante........'

When he got no reaction he tried again in his very limited Spanish.

'Absolutamente encantadora......'

But his accent was so poor that she couldn't make out what he was saying. Perhaps this was not the shoal for her and, with tears in her eyes, she turned her comely tail and swam away to the North.

The waters were promisingly cooler when she encountered a wide river on her left, flowing

from a large land mass. It didn't take long before she encountered cod nearby, and again swam up to introduce herself.

'Buenas noches' she began again 'Viengo de España....'

'Come again, darlin?'

' España. Soy Español. Erm...I am..erm.. coming out of Spain.'

'Oh, Spanish! Well, well! Sangria, sand, sea and sex, eh, know what I mean darlin?'

'Qué?'

'Well, it is in Benidorm. Benidorm! Fantastic! We played tequila roulette every night last time. No idea who won. We was legless for days; mind you, we always are, aren't we, being cod, know what I mean?'

She recoiled from his lunge.

'Qué?'

'And the women! Phwooar! I even missed the England Spain game 'cos of them - that one where Lampard scored the winner. Course, Lamps wasn't the only one what scored that night, know what I mean? Mind, Sergio Ramos should have been sent off, dirty sod. Bloody Referee. Dutch, wasn't he. Probably bloody stoned. Well, they all are. I had to watch the highlights later when I'd sobered up. November I think that was, know what I mean darlin'?

If a cod can shudder, Codelia did. She didn't really understand what her new companion was saying, but knew it didn't feel right. Fleetingly, she thought of Codfrey, then realised her new companion was shouting. But what could 'Ingerlund, Ingerlund, Ingerlund!' possibly mean?

'Sorry' she said 'I go now. Erm....good bye.'

He puffed out his chest.

'Adiós!' he shouted proudly 'Adiós! I can get by in Spanish, you know. Listen – Oy! Manuel! Dos cervezas, pronto! Got it?'

She fled. But her next encounter was even less successful.

'Areet, bonny lass?'

'Qué?'

'Divvent get is wrang, pet, but tha's geet lush, like! Canny as oot!

'Qué?'

'Eeeh, ahm gannin te the booza. Fancy a bottle of the Broon, do ya? Ahm clamming an' all!'

Beginners' English classes at home hadn't prepared her for this at all.

'Sorry' she said, again 'I no understand. I go now. Erm....good bye.'

'Ahh! Divvent ye gan the noo....'

But gan she had. She swam feverishly, always keeping land to her left. Oh, Codfrey, Codfrey, what have I done? She swam and swam until she could swim no more. Finally she stopped, exhausted.

'Oh!' said a voice 'what have we got here then? Smashing to meet you, isn't it, my name's Codwalladr and I was just saying to Mrs Codwalladr, that's her over there, like, I said I wonder who that new fish there is, isn't it? Well, it's not every day we get a visitor, if you know what I mean, but there we are, Croeso y Cymru, oh, sorry, that's a bit of Welsh, isn't it, means Welcome to Wales, see, not all that many cod speak Welsh these days, but we like to keep it going, so to speak, anyway.........'

'Qué? Soy Español. Erm...I am..erm.. coming out of Spain.'

'Oh!! Spain, is it? There's lovely. Mrs Codwalladr and I used to love going to Albufeira - is that Spain or the other one? - no matter, it's lovely anyway, daffodils not a patch on ours of course, but there we are........'

'Por favor.....please..... I want to go home. Quiero Codfrey; quiero....I want..... Bay of Biscay.'

And as the hot salt tears started to flow, the Codwalladrs took pity on her. They asked about Codfrey, they asked about the Bay, and in her broken English she eventually got them to understand that the Bay was beautiful, the days were long, the sun was hot and that life was sweet.

'It is good life, la buena vide.'

The Codwalladrs looked at each other and – with a smile - they both nodded.

'One thing, dear' said Mrs C, casually, 'what about rain, only, you see, it's always raining here....'

'Always bloody raining......' put in Mr C.

'Language! They didn't teach you that at chapel......'

'Oh. sorry'

'…..and it gets so miserable being wet all the time' continued Mrs C 'you can't dry things out properly if you know what I mean, you get sick of wearing a cagoule all the time, sometimes you can hear a real loud sort of, well.....squelch from your fins.........'

'Squelch, yes'

'Oh, proper gets on your nerves.....'

Codelia didn't understand everything but grasped that her new friends wanted to be helpful and were asking about home.

'Home is very beautiful. Not much rain. Lots of sun. Plenty food.'

Mr C grinned, as only a cod can.

'Phytoplankton coming out of the gills, is it?'

'Qué?'

There was a hurried discussion between the Welsh fish, but the outcome was never in doubt.

'We'd like to come with you, dear,' said Mrs C 'we can show you the way of course, but then, well, we'd like to stay.'

'Oh! Si! Si!! Yes! Por favor...........'

And so they all swam down to the Bay, where Codelia and Codfrey were tearfully reunited.

Their romance blossomed as never before, to the palpable delight of the Codwalladrs. And so when the babies arrived, it seemed the most natural thing in the ocean for the new Mum and Dad to ask them to stand as codparents.

ANAGRAM CORNER  

BREXIT MEANS BREXIT.  PERIOD.

I NOTED EXPERT MAXI-BRIBERS

THE GODMOTHER

Hello, and welcome to the latest edition of The Autolycan.  I loved the headline and hope you enjoy the flight of fancy which follows.  If so please tell your mates, Like it on Facebook or whatever.  I might need to rely on you for protection if Lucy Brasi comes for me!

By the way, this is a combined September/October edition of the blog.  There won't be a separate one next month but I hope to get something out again in November.

THE GODMOTHER

A police officer has described the Women's Institute as Britain's 'biggest organised crime group'

Daily Mirror

Ameriga Bonasera and her daughter, Maria, sat outside the room in which the committee of the Ladies' Luncheon Club were discussing Maria's application to become Membership Secretary. Ameriga was sure it would go well. Maria had been a loyal and diligent member for several years, surely this time she would be voted in to the position she craved, and with it the real prize, the cherished place on the committee itself!

Ameriga waited, outwardly calm. Maria waited, barely able to contain her tense, nervous excitement. The meeting broke up. They stood, their faces betraying what they were sure would be their imminent joy and pride. But the members filed past, laughing and joking, taking no notice of them.

She had not been elected. It had all been a farce. All their years in this country, they had trusted in American justice, American authority, in the principle of reward for hard work, no matter what your background. Ameriga's face hardened as she turned to her distraught daughter. 'They have made fools of us,' she said 'for justice we must go on our knees to Donna Corleone.'

'What? THE Donna Corleone? Capa of the Women's Institute family?'

'Yeah. Most powerful women's family in the whole goddam city.'

It was Donna Corleone's daughter's wedding day, and Ameriga waited patiently as Donna received a stream of guests who wanted to offer gifts or beg for favours. At last, the summons came, and she heard her own voice falter as she explained the insult, the humiliation Maria had suffered.

'I kinda hope' began Donna, coolly, once Ameriga had finished, 'dat you ain't gonna ask for no horse's head in da bed treatment. Already had three today. Worst thing I ever did, da goddam horse's head in da bed. Worked a treat first time, but now dey all want it. I've had to re-assign people from extortion, even racketeering, and dat's brung da goddam union down on my back, demanding more money cos da chances for a bit of graft ain't so good in da horse's head in da bed game. Even had da nerve to ask for a crèche for da punks' goddam kids. Plus, dey ain't enough horses to go round. Much more of this I'm gonna have to open my own stud farm.'

'Donna,' began Maria, 'we are the Ladies' Luncheon Club family, we never touch horseflesh....'

At this Donna raised an involuntary eyebrow.

'Well, not knowingly anyway, but help us and I can help you expand your business.....'

This time the eyebrow was quizzical.

'How?'

'Dey're planning a new venture. Wanna go into da craft fair racket. Need a partner. Wid an inside woman like me you could be dat partner. Maybe, senior partner.'

Neither Maria nor her mother expected an answer straight away but they could tell Donna was interested as she abruptly terminated the interview and summoned her consigliera.

'Da young Bonasera broad – promising. Bring her in. Take her under your wing. Induction, training, support. She's gonna be useful.'

'OK, boss. One more. A business proposition to break into the sew n stitch game. Sew n stitch is turning over millions these days and we're not getting none of the action. It's a good family, looks like a surefire winner.'

'Who da family?'

'The Soroptimists.'

'Da Soroptimists?'

'Yeah. And they're thinking big. Ain't just tea cosies and lace doilies, Donna, they're moving in on bootees, matinée jackets, entire goddam layettes; black market price of pink and blue wool gone through the roof. They've even got the muscle end of the business breaking into them swank houses on the far side of town. They're ignoring the cash and the jewels. Know what they're after? Knitting needles. It's true. Ever crocheted a shawl? Course not. Soon there won't be a nonna in the whole country without half a dozen crocheted shawls to choose from. Then there's bedjackets, rugs for their goddam knees.... We could tie this one in with the Ladies' Luncheon Club and their craft fairs, Donna, corner both the sew n stitch stuff and the scented soaps, the lavender pomanders, the heart plaques that say cute stuff like 'if Grannies were flowers we'd pick you....''

Donna's eyes lit up. It was a perfect fit. She'd worked with both families before. But she didn't forget Maria. Bring this one off and Maria could be Membership Secretary of all three families!

But Donna's star was not quite as bright as she thought. Unbeknown to her, the two families who hadn't been invited to the wedding were meeting across town. Each had a grievance against Donna, and they swore to sink their differences in a hostile alliance against the Women's Institute.

After hours of tense negotiation, the Capa of the Mothers' Union and the Capa of the Townswomen's Guild families stood and embraced. They needed no written contract. Each knew the other would honour her word.

'Baking!' they said together. Baking was the future. Not just huge crusty Italian loaves, still dusty with flour, but sweet and succulent pinoli cookies, ciambelle and cherry bocconotti filled with almonds and chocolate! It was perfect - cheap enough to be addictive, with promising secondary markets in weightwatchers' groups, bogus diet pills, Christmas recipe books and even phony backstreet tooth pullers. The cops would leave them alone – for a payoff in the form of biscuits, doughnuts and chocolate cake, which had the added bonus of expanding their waistlines and slowing them down if the going ever did get rough. There was just one thing. Judges and politicians. They'd need to be persuaded not to take an interest in the new business. That sort of persuasion needed someone who moved in the highest circles; who counted these people as personal friends. Someone with the financial muscle to grease a few palms. There was just one person - Donna Corleone. She'd have to be part of the deal. They'd have to send a top emissary, and they didn't come more formidable than Lucy Brasi, surely the most dreaded operative in all the five families.

Maria, meanwhile, had been placed on the fast track induction programme. She already knew the family mission statement and vision off by heart, and was making good progress with principles, aims, objectives, targets, key performance indicators and all the rest. And the policies! There were so many – Equality and Diversity (to be minimised), Environmental Impact (to be maximised), Health and Safety at Work (at least that was a short one), Disciplinary Policy (another short one – whatever Donna decided in any given case.) At the moment she was stuck into one of the longer ones – the Grievance Procedure.

The appointed day arrived, as did the emissary from the other two families. Maria greeted her exactly as per the documented procedure set out in the Client and Customer Relations policy. Donna smiled. She liked a quick learner.

But from then on things went downhill. Lucy took too much for granted. Assumed Donna would agree. Failed to show full respect.

Eventually the Capa cut in, coldly, harshly. ' I thank you for da invitation, but I cannot be a party to your venture. Baking is not for this family. They call me their Godmother. I have responsibilities, I worry about calories, cholesterol, saturated fats. I will not inflict this on our people. Thank you and goodbye.'

It was then that Lucy Brasi made the fatal mistake. Instead of accepting Donna's curt dismissal she began to argue.

Donna cut across her in a cold fury. 'I did not wish to hold a grievance against your families, but you leave me no choice.'

Maria - bright, alert – had anticipated the development and pushed the grievance procedure across to Donna, open at the horse's head page. Donna shook her head. Maria flipped the page and whispered in her ear. A smile crossed Donna's face. Then she scowled at the emissary.

'Do you have a recipe for torta della nonna with you?'

'Of course.'

'Why should I not send a dead fish back to your two families wrapped in your Grandmother's Tart recipe? To say that you sleep wid da fishes?'

There was a stunned silence although Lucy betrayed no emotion beyond an insolent shrug.

'You disgust me. You are fit to talk only to my assistant. Maria!'

This was Maria's moment. She thrilled as she led the feared emissary into a side room.

'Now wise up and wise up good' she began - she had inadvertently been given an outdated copy of the Guidelines to the Communication Policy – 'we can play this one of two ways. You want all out war between the five families? OK, you can have it. I guess your Capa might disapprove though. I hear she breaks things when she disapproves.'

There was silence and the smallest shake of the head.

'Or you can co-operate.'

'How?'

'OK. Here's da deal. I don't care how you get 'em, but get da membership lists of both da Townswomen's Guild and da Mother's Union and pass 'em to me. In future I want all subscriptions paid over to da Women's Institute. In full. Think of us as da mother organisation. Your Capa won't know nothing about it till it's too late. Nobody gets hurt, but Donna gets to be Capa di Capi. Is it a deal?'

The other hesitated.

' Why should Lucy Brasi agree?'

Maria had heard the old tale of Donna holding a gun to a rival's head and assuring her that within one minute either her signature or her brains would be on a particular contract. She managed the hard stare but the words simply wouldn't come. She had a lot still to learn. But then she had an idea.

'Get me those lists, then never ever show up here again. Ever. Just disappear. But if you think you can make dough from the baking racket, go ahead. It's yours. Donna don't want nothin' to do with it.'

It was crumbs from the rich woman's table. But would the other bite?

Maria's eyes narrowed. 'Nothin'. Ya understand?'

Lucy nodded. They shook hands; they kissed. Some days later Maria reported back in triumph that she had delivered both the Townswomen's Guild and the Mothers' Union into Donna's absolute control. Not one single drop of blood had been spilt. Lucy Brasi had been neutralised. The other Capi still had no idea what had happened.

Donna was flabbergasted. The girl was a genius.

'But how did you....' she began, before words simply failed her.

Maria tried hard to keep her face impassive, but couldn't help breaking into a broad grin.

'I made her an offer she couldn't refuse' she said.

_______________________________________________________________________

ANAGRAM CORNER

ELLIE MAY SIMMONDS

MY!  I SMILE ON MEDALS!