For one weekend I pretended I had a life. A couple of weeks ago, I flew on the green plane, all by my own self, uninterrupted by any of them doing gymnastics under the seats looking for a lost pencil or hounding me for overpriced trolley snacks. I read and slept and before I knew it I was in Heathrow. I was gratefully picked up by a friend and driven right into the heart of London. What a treat. Along the Thames we went, to the South Bank where a Cockney block on a bike told us where to park. All in leathers, his wheels were savage and in my head I was sayin’ Room on yo’ Dick Van Dyke for one mo’ love, eh?. We loitered underneath Waterloo Bridge late in the afternoon and nursed some nice wine in front of the BFI, and people watched the trendy whilst waiting for the rest of the ladies to make their way. Now I was amazed that they let any of us in given that none of us had the following; an acute fringe, pink hair, prodigious piercings, humungous glasses. The buzz on a Friday evening in that part of London is refreshing and we chatted and giggled our way through a titeann of Prosecco accompanied by scampi and chips. Juno and The Paycock in the National Theatre awaited, and we took our seats for the performance, not a fringe in sight. That was Friday night. On Saturday evening, the women got together again, played a few chords, sang a couple of tunes, more wine with more craic.
Upon return and when humdrum kicked in I thought of Juno and her Paycock. Around the same time I heard the tale of Melusine. Juno could have taken a leaf out of her book. The supernatural lady didn’t tolerate any messin’ from her other half. This ‘spinning yarn’ is one of many tales women used to tell each other whilst, yes you’ve guessed, spinning. Come to think of it, that’s where the saying ‘spinning a yarn’ may originate. Anyhow, I digress. Melusine (of the fairy folk), legend has it, was a triplet, daughter of Pressyne. Pressyne put a curse on her, for bad behaviour towards her father, the King of Albania, and this curse could only be lifted if she married a not so curious knight. So, one day in the forest of Coulombiers, Raymond of Poitiers was out hunting boar, as you do, when didn’t he go and accidentally kill his uncle with an arrow, mistaking him for a boar rustling in the bushes. Could easily happen. So poor aul’ Raymond of Poitiers was all in a heap, gone wrong with guilt and remorse, when on his way to confess to sending his uncle to an early grave, he got distracted (as a young lad would) by three fairy maidens. Melusine, hangin out with her sisters, coiffing her hair by her magic fountain, lured Raymond over and he all mithered. Melusine puts down the GHD and says ‘You’ll be alright luveen. Tell ya what now Raymond, marry me and I’ll sort out your conscience forever. You’ll be sound’, followed possibly by an evil guttural guffaw. But, there was a catch, as often the case between the mystical and the mortal. He was never to enter her boudoir of a Saturday night. What he didn’t know is that this woman wasn’t just all woman. The curse had bedecked her with added extras, namely a set of wings and a scaly fishy dragony tail. How yer man didn’t see the wings stickin up out of her frock or the tail below the hem, I don’t know. So, off they went, had the beef and salmon and the flash mob first dance and the years rolled on. They dabbled in property development, well, she did, building castles, churches and fortresses here, there and everywhere, cause yer man hadn’t a bob. She had ten sons by him, but God help us, none of the gasúns were knittin with the two needles. One poor divil had a lion’s claw on the side of his face, the other lad one red and one blue eye, the most wicked had an gargantuan tooth protruding from his mouth. I’m sure the health service in the 1300s was in disarray then too.
Anyhow, back at the castle Raymond pondered inquisitively the physicality of his sons, the whys and wherefores. His jealous brother put thoughts into his head as to why she shut herself away each Saturday night? Why she didn’t want to partake with him of a bottle of red and a packet of Kettles in front of whatever scour was on the telly? Curiousity got the better of him, despite his promise. He decided to sneak a peak through the keyhole and lo and behold there she was, tail hangin out over the side of the bath. She shrieked, shook off her wings, flew out the window, putting a curse on the castles and fortresses she had built whilst taking half the roof tops with her. She was never seen again, left him with ten young lads. Her wailing can be heard as she haunts the Vendee.
So, embrace the boudoir. Creams, powders, lotions and scrubs do as you will. And wo betide the mortals who disturb the peeling, preening and plucking, or we’ll be out the gap, take the hinges with us. We’re taking back Saturday nights by order of Melusine.
Upon return and when humdrum kicked in I thought of Juno and her Paycock. Around the same time I heard the tale of Melusine. Juno could have taken a leaf out of her book. The supernatural lady didn’t tolerate any messin’ from her other half. This ‘spinning yarn’ is one of many tales women used to tell each other whilst, yes you’ve guessed, spinning. Come to think of it, that’s where the saying ‘spinning a yarn’ may originate. Anyhow, I digress. Melusine (of the fairy folk), legend has it, was a triplet, daughter of Pressyne. Pressyne put a curse on her, for bad behaviour towards her father, the King of Albania, and this curse could only be lifted if she married a not so curious knight. So, one day in the forest of Coulombiers, Raymond of Poitiers was out hunting boar, as you do, when didn’t he go and accidentally kill his uncle with an arrow, mistaking him for a boar rustling in the bushes. Could easily happen. So poor aul’ Raymond of Poitiers was all in a heap, gone wrong with guilt and remorse, when on his way to confess to sending his uncle to an early grave, he got distracted (as a young lad would) by three fairy maidens. Melusine, hangin out with her sisters, coiffing her hair by her magic fountain, lured Raymond over and he all mithered. Melusine puts down the GHD and says ‘You’ll be alright luveen. Tell ya what now Raymond, marry me and I’ll sort out your conscience forever. You’ll be sound’, followed possibly by an evil guttural guffaw. But, there was a catch, as often the case between the mystical and the mortal. He was never to enter her boudoir of a Saturday night. What he didn’t know is that this woman wasn’t just all woman. The curse had bedecked her with added extras, namely a set of wings and a scaly fishy dragony tail. How yer man didn’t see the wings stickin up out of her frock or the tail below the hem, I don’t know. So, off they went, had the beef and salmon and the flash mob first dance and the years rolled on. They dabbled in property development, well, she did, building castles, churches and fortresses here, there and everywhere, cause yer man hadn’t a bob. She had ten sons by him, but God help us, none of the gasúns were knittin with the two needles. One poor divil had a lion’s claw on the side of his face, the other lad one red and one blue eye, the most wicked had an gargantuan tooth protruding from his mouth. I’m sure the health service in the 1300s was in disarray then too.
Anyhow, back at the castle Raymond pondered inquisitively the physicality of his sons, the whys and wherefores. His jealous brother put thoughts into his head as to why she shut herself away each Saturday night? Why she didn’t want to partake with him of a bottle of red and a packet of Kettles in front of whatever scour was on the telly? Curiousity got the better of him, despite his promise. He decided to sneak a peak through the keyhole and lo and behold there she was, tail hangin out over the side of the bath. She shrieked, shook off her wings, flew out the window, putting a curse on the castles and fortresses she had built whilst taking half the roof tops with her. She was never seen again, left him with ten young lads. Her wailing can be heard as she haunts the Vendee.
So, embrace the boudoir. Creams, powders, lotions and scrubs do as you will. And wo betide the mortals who disturb the peeling, preening and plucking, or we’ll be out the gap, take the hinges with us. We’re taking back Saturday nights by order of Melusine.
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