Head of Snakes

[peter]

In the early days of my courtship with my now wife, we attended a play performed in the open air Minack Theatre on the cliffs of Porthcurno.

I'd bought tickets for the matinee performance, held in the late afternoon against a just beginning to set sun, and despite the shortcomings of the play itself (the eponymous Head of Snakes) the setting was romantic indeed.

The autumn early evenings could be chill however, and with this in mind I'd equipped myself with a calf length fur jacket - a sort of coarse almost bear-like fabric, that over the years had served me well out on the farms in the depths of winter. It had been a gift from an elderly friend of mine, who had himself had good service from it.

We sat in the almost idyllic surroundings watching the play, well attended as all performances at the Minack are, and in the evening air I became aware of a faint buzzing. I looked around questioningly, but could see no source for the irritating sound, until glancing upwards, I saw that a collection of flys - no small number - had gathered and were circling an a swarm above my head. I can only suppose that some residual smell of the cattle I was want to be handling when normally wearing the coat, had adhered to it, and the flys, knowing no better, had gathered there in response to their natural inclinations when encountering something of the bovine ilk.

I remained in situ, a somewhat wooden expression fixed on my face, until it became apparent that my unwanted companions were attracting attention. Nothing was said, but an uncomfortable shifting in the people occupying the adjacent seats to my (now) wife and myself was becoming apparent.

Summoning as much dignity as a man with a cloud of flys flying above his head can muster, I rose, and drawing my wife with me, shuffled along the stepped seating to the exit aisle.

I haven't returned to the Minack these past thirty years. Some things are just too painful to remember. As to the ending of the Head of Snakes, I never did find out how it went. I've got to be honest though - I couldn't give a damn!

[Avatar]

Damn, that reminds me of a short story in which the protagonist was, unknown to himself IIRC, actually an incarnation of Beelzebub or something, and he was constantly followed by swarms of adoring flies.

I sadly cannot recall the author, or if the title was indeed "Lord of the Flies" (playing on the Golding novel) or not.

(Ah, a bit of prodding perplexity.ai (an LLM driven search engine, pretty good) has revealed that I am probably thinking of a short story by Isaac Asimov titled "Flies." And it wasn't the protagonist by rather somebody he knew.)

--A

[peter]

I can claim to be many things Av, but an incarnation of Beelzebub ain't one of them. No, my flies were at best opportunistic for a bit of rich steak for dinner, at worst gathering in the company they felt most affinity with in terms of Aristotle's Scala Naturae.



And while I'm in the mood for telling stories, I'm going to set down,

A Tale of Two Carpets

Many years ago in my town, a wealthy business owner who ran a carpet shop had a young couple enter his premises and enquire about purchasing a rug.

He showed them a very fine oriental carpet which had an equally fine price tag attached to it.

"It's a bit above our price range", said the couple, and Kingsley (for that was his name) turned to a cheaper example.

It's lovely," said the girl, "but have you got anything a bit cheaper.

Beginning to show signs of irritation, Kingsley's unctuous manner began to stiffen. When they said once again that the third rug he proffered was beyond their budget, he drew himself up to his fully erect bearing.

"May I suggest," he said, pointing to a shop across the street, "if you are looking for something - cheaper - you go to that shop over there."

The couple left the shop thanking him, totally unaware that he owned "that shop" as well!

-----0------

Many years later, as it would happen, I was myself looking to buy a cheap carpet for my front room, and was in the successor shop to the very ones that the young couple had previously entered.

By this time the two shops had amalgamated into a single showroom with rolls of carpets and bundles of square sample books scattered everywhere.

I wandered around looking at this carpet and that, and was finally approached by a salesman (Kingsley had long since dissapeared from the scene and this store was now part of a nationwide chain).

Telling him what I was after, he first showed me a lovely carpet that was far better than I needed for my small house.

"Beautiful carpet with hard-wearing pile and stain resistant colouring, retailing at twelve seventy-five a square yard."

"Too dear," I said, and he turned to another role.

"Bit thinner pile," he said, "but a fine medium quality carpet retailing at five pounds fifty per square yard."

"Still a bit dear," I said, "Anything else to offer?"

He drew me to the rear end of the showroom and pulled down a roll of thin coarse looking carpet of beige/brown colour. "We have this, he said, and looked at it. "There's not much to say really. It's one pound nineteen a square yard and you won't have to worry about the pile wearing off because there isn't any"



(Incidentally, I've just reread the Head of Snakes story above (24 hours after posting), and as is so often the case, can now see the glaring mistakes that need editing to make it flow and run better. It's funny, but that is how writing is for me. At the time of composition I find it nearly impossible to see these suddenly obvious flaws - the overwriting, the asonant words, the plain bad grammar - but 24 hours later I can correct them in a flash. I'm guessing that this is what editors have to do with journalism submissions, and probably for the very same reasons.)

[Avatar]

"There's not much to say really. It's one pound nineteen a square yard and you won't have to worry about the pile wearing off because there isn't any"

Ah, honesty in sales.

--A