[John Whitworth]

Hum! Can it rhyme?

No. 2830: talking shop

You are invited to choose, from different authors, two characters who have the same job or position (e.g. Shakespeare’s Quince and Lewis Carroll’s Carpenter, Mr Collins and Mr Slope, Holmes and Philip Marlowe) and give an excerpt of not more than 150 words from their conversation on meeting. Please email entries to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 8 January.

This article first appeared in the print edition of The Spectator magazine, dated 14 December 2013

[Jerome Betts]

John, any significance in that concluding sentence? Is Lucy moving Vickywards?

[Brian Allgar]

Jerome, I suspect that John simply cut and pasted a bit more than the human frame requires.

[John Whitworth]

No, Jerome. That bit is always there. For some reason I couldn't detach it today.

[Brian Allgar]

“You’re not Alice”, said the Queen of Hearts suspiciously.

“Thou speakest sooth, Lady, I am not. My name is Anne, Boleyn that was, now Queen of England.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the Queen of Hearts. “There is only room for one Queen here, and that is me.”

“I’faith, Lady, I know thee not, but this realm is mine, and my coronation shall be long remembered.”

“Coronation?” She snorted contemptuously. “Oh, I’ve had lots of those, sometimes as many as three before breakfast. But I gave them up, as I found they disagreed with my digestion.”

“Alas, Lady, thy meaning escapes me, and urgent affairs of state call me. Steward, ho! Show the lady from the Palace forthwith.”

She left the room, leaving the Queen of Hearts fuming with rage. “What sauce! What impudence! Off with her head!”

The steward eventually appeared, looking flustered, and told her: “‘Tis done, Your Majesty.”

[John Whitworth]

Sidney Carton and Horace Rumpole

I'm Sidney Carton, drunkard, but
In looks I've got it made.
A battered hat and boozer's gut
Are Rumpole's stock in trade.

My love for Lucy is so pure
For her I'd gladly die.
I married Hilda. I'm not sure
I'll ever fathom why.

My life has been a sad pretence
But death transfigures me.
Bloodstains and blunt instruments
Are what I like to see.

I do a better thing by far
That sets my soul on fire.
Pommeroy's and a small cigar
Are all that I desire.