Sentence The Onehundredandsixtyfifth
Which, Dear Reader, was how it came to be that Daphne and Maude, idly whiling away the time, after the excitement of the journey which they had not experienced for so many a long day and night, from Waverley to Melrose, happened to leave them just two miles short of their former Summer playground, with its red-sandstone tumbles and pleasant walks, where they were once wont to pound a beat from their dear old Aunt Jessie's house in High Street to the Abbey, thence to the Swing Bridge, across the River to Gattonside and their Cousins the Davidovas, with some of them upstream to The Bottle Bridge (a corruption of Boatshiel, Daphne, ever the true scholar had informed them to a chorus of cat-calls and 'too-too bo-ring' until she conceded that the popular name was probably the better anyway – and so by a Hop, Skip and Jump to Lowood and their Aunt Nessie's for cakes and crumpets and collecting her brood of Goldfishes and the other Dumbiedykes, and from the nearby Farm they collected Tabby Shanter, spending the holiday with her old Granny Nan, the youngest but
definitely the best fabricator of their band, for she could quell an irate Gamekeeper or gruff Farmer by such sincere lies as ever came from the mouths of babes and sucklings and got them out of more trouble than can be described here, though she was very wee and angelic in those days and so to Abbotsford where their Maxwell-Scott relations always had room in the kitchen for grubby knees and jammy faces, before the rabble of quondam savages, explorers and gangaboots, augmented by a Sassenach from this cottage and a Teuchter from that – for they were a very democratic and inclusive Wild Bunch, the only requirements for membership being unlimited capacities for Adventure, Soor Plooms and Irn Bru - climbed to Cauldshiels Loch, that fabled bottomless water into which a Knight had once strayed as his horse drank thirstily, until the sucking mud drew beast and heavily
encumbered rider below never to be seen again, to the top of Cauldshiels Hill, down through Holy Well Farm and up onto Hare Hill, the littlest Eildon, the fourth of the famed Triple Peaks the conquering Romans called Trimontium, and they swarmed over South Hill, laboured up the side of
Middle Hill, the highest, and streamed down to the shoulder and with never a break raced on up to the site of the Votadini Fort on North Eildon and if it was presently occupied by local kids there'd be a
pitched battle, the City Bairns determined to winkle them out while they stoutly resisted all assaults until a Pax was agreed and sealed with Irn Bru, Jelly Babies and Gobstoppers and the survivors limped down into town and dispersed from the Square to their different diggings for their scrapes and cuts to be treated with Witch Hazel and Gentian Violet, their muds and other adherences washed off in steamy baths and their ravenous appetites assuaged buttered muffins washed down with Cocoa – oh, and now they sat within ample sight of the Triple Eildon, and but a short stroll from the babbling waters in whose coolness they did oft during those youthful Summers dip their toes – but did they now choose to revisit those former sunny days and steamy nights, or does maturity now require them to sit when they would then have dashed, to remember, when they would have acted without heed of consequences or the headaches of over-indulged physical cavorting – well, truth to tell, for that is our sworn duty, Reader, Darling, never to embellish that which is complete, never to dissimulate when veracity is our watchword, they chose merely a short quiet amble, no striding today, no strident voices or extravagant gestures, and thankfully so: for in that peaceful clime, on such a sun-kissed day, when all the merry throng had welcomed them and their Monarch and Her First Minister and departed hither and thither, when all the avid passengers had piled aboard the next train for the trip North to that Great City on The Forth, our two Heroines (well, the two whose names adorn our Title-Page, for we realise that our scope has widened and we have included in our tale many others fit also to be so regarded) Dear Daphne and Dearest Maudie, found themselves a quiet bench, just steps
from the tinkling ripples of the Mighty Tweed, and sat awhile in uffish thought, until their joint reverie was broken by a gentle voice, whose owner wondered if it would not be disturbing them too much if she shared their bench for the nonce, as her bunions were killing her sumpn awfy and she fain would cool her burning trotters in the plentiful watters afore them; and considerate to the last, Daphne and Maude indicated their welcome to another Lady of Distinction, for had they not instantly recognised Venetia Vixen, doyenne of Daytime Television and thought, each to herself, 'wotta stoater', for the Broadcaster was indeed most lovely to behold in the light of day as under the
brilliance of Studio Arcs, and with only the merest touch of make-up on her perfect, unblemished, alabaster skin, though her moderate tones of Morningside as oft-times broadcast, now rang with the tang of Bridgeton and proclaimed her Weegie Roots – but suddenly, she broke down, weeping on their ample bosoms from the strain of hiding her fears and anxieties and so found that in such caring companionship she was able to unburden herself to them!
Which, Dear Reader, was how it came to be that Daphne and Maude, idly whiling away the time, after the excitement of the journey which they had not experienced for so many a long day and night, from Waverley to Melrose, happened to leave them just two miles short of their former Summer playground, with its red-sandstone tumbles and pleasant walks, where they were once wont to pound a beat from their dear old Aunt Jessie's house in High Street to the Abbey, thence to the Swing Bridge, across the River to Gattonside and their Cousins the Davidovas, with some of them upstream to The Bottle Bridge (a corruption of Boatshiel, Daphne, ever the true scholar had informed them to a chorus of cat-calls and 'too-too bo-ring' until she conceded that the popular name was probably the better anyway – and so by a Hop, Skip and Jump to Lowood and their Aunt Nessie's for cakes and crumpets and collecting her brood of Goldfishes and the other Dumbiedykes, and from the nearby Farm they collected Tabby Shanter, spending the holiday with her old Granny Nan, the youngest but
definitely the best fabricator of their band, for she could quell an irate Gamekeeper or gruff Farmer by such sincere lies as ever came from the mouths of babes and sucklings and got them out of more trouble than can be described here, though she was very wee and angelic in those days and so to Abbotsford where their Maxwell-Scott relations always had room in the kitchen for grubby knees and jammy faces, before the rabble of quondam savages, explorers and gangaboots, augmented by a Sassenach from this cottage and a Teuchter from that – for they were a very democratic and inclusive Wild Bunch, the only requirements for membership being unlimited capacities for Adventure, Soor Plooms and Irn Bru - climbed to Cauldshiels Loch, that fabled bottomless water into which a Knight had once strayed as his horse drank thirstily, until the sucking mud drew beast and heavily
encumbered rider below never to be seen again, to the top of Cauldshiels Hill, down through Holy Well Farm and up onto Hare Hill, the littlest Eildon, the fourth of the famed Triple Peaks the conquering Romans called Trimontium, and they swarmed over South Hill, laboured up the side of
Middle Hill, the highest, and streamed down to the shoulder and with never a break raced on up to the site of the Votadini Fort on North Eildon and if it was presently occupied by local kids there'd be a
pitched battle, the City Bairns determined to winkle them out while they stoutly resisted all assaults until a Pax was agreed and sealed with Irn Bru, Jelly Babies and Gobstoppers and the survivors limped down into town and dispersed from the Square to their different diggings for their scrapes and cuts to be treated with Witch Hazel and Gentian Violet, their muds and other adherences washed off in steamy baths and their ravenous appetites assuaged buttered muffins washed down with Cocoa – oh, and now they sat within ample sight of the Triple Eildon, and but a short stroll from the babbling waters in whose coolness they did oft during those youthful Summers dip their toes – but did they now choose to revisit those former sunny days and steamy nights, or does maturity now require them to sit when they would then have dashed, to remember, when they would have acted without heed of consequences or the headaches of over-indulged physical cavorting – well, truth to tell, for that is our sworn duty, Reader, Darling, never to embellish that which is complete, never to dissimulate when veracity is our watchword, they chose merely a short quiet amble, no striding today, no strident voices or extravagant gestures, and thankfully so: for in that peaceful clime, on such a sun-kissed day, when all the merry throng had welcomed them and their Monarch and Her First Minister and departed hither and thither, when all the avid passengers had piled aboard the next train for the trip North to that Great City on The Forth, our two Heroines (well, the two whose names adorn our Title-Page, for we realise that our scope has widened and we have included in our tale many others fit also to be so regarded) Dear Daphne and Dearest Maudie, found themselves a quiet bench, just steps
from the tinkling ripples of the Mighty Tweed, and sat awhile in uffish thought, until their joint reverie was broken by a gentle voice, whose owner wondered if it would not be disturbing them too much if she shared their bench for the nonce, as her bunions were killing her sumpn awfy and she fain would cool her burning trotters in the plentiful watters afore them; and considerate to the last, Daphne and Maude indicated their welcome to another Lady of Distinction, for had they not instantly recognised Venetia Vixen, doyenne of Daytime Television and thought, each to herself, 'wotta stoater', for the Broadcaster was indeed most lovely to behold in the light of day as under the
brilliance of Studio Arcs, and with only the merest touch of make-up on her perfect, unblemished, alabaster skin, though her moderate tones of Morningside as oft-times broadcast, now rang with the tang of Bridgeton and proclaimed her Weegie Roots – but suddenly, she broke down, weeping on their ample bosoms from the strain of hiding her fears and anxieties and so found that in such caring companionship she was able to unburden herself to them!
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