Tagg’s Island, Sir Alfred Munnings, 1919. Philip Wilson Publishers, 1978.
Cressida’s fiancé Rupert plays midfield for the Tottenham Hotspurs. Her friend Hermione, only daughter of Sir Hubert Dalgleish, fancies Orlando, an enigmatic striker for the Northampton Avengers. Tut tut. Le coeur a ses raisons, etc., wouldn’t you say, if only you knew French?
A soupçon of tension thus invades the heiresses’ amity; they cheer respectively for bitter rivals on the football pitch.
Cressida learns from Rupert, quite casually, that Orlando is the subject of certain rumours involving the daughter of Archibald McClackmannanham, whose company will build the new bridge over the Firth of Forth. Rupert has reported Sir Alistair Chichester to have muttered audibly to Sir Hubert over a tot of Sheep Dip in the Thane of Thoth that McClackmannanham was a “bloody arriviste” egged on by “his cohort of toadies.” Such is the disdain of old wealth for new wealth.
Cressida imparts this intelligence with delicate reluctance to Hermione, who receives it with a sharp intake of breath and a prolonged glance through the French doors giving out upon the manicured grounds of Pelfe Chase, her family’s ancestral manor.
Your assignment is as follows: Pretend you have the sensibilities of gentlefolk. On a scale of One (“Undetectable”) to Ten (“Seismic”), where must Cressida’s sympathy for her friend register? On the same scale, how horrid must poor Hermione now feel?
(Social Math — UK, Copyright (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.)
EthicalDative 
Shed Down by the River
Fireplace, JMN, photo. (c) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.
From the street it’s nondescript: long and low, homely brickwork giving way to corrugated metal, no windows. Flat, pedestrian, a second-rate, seedy, industrial-looking structure on a humble side of town.
Patio and doorways are on the opposite side facing inward to a landscaped city block. Walled and fenced. Graveled islands pocked with blooming sage and firebush. You pass through a high brick arch that Arturo Rodriguez built. He and wife Andrea were the first residents of the original cabin that‘s a rectangular ramble now. Andy would dandle my infant son on her jolly lap: “Let me see that fat baby!”
Inside, it’s a crepuscular cocoon, a Bohemian man-cave — rustic opulence, high ceilings, tile floors, monumental fireplace, a skylight over the easel.
A river runs nearby. I call it the Mighty Wadi Loopy.
I was the only foreigner in my class at the University of Barcelona. Three things there impressed me:
(1) Well-off Spaniards lived modestly compared to their U.S. counterparts. Their apartments nestled in old buildings that gave no external hint of luxury. Men wore the same blazer all week long. The Catalan haute bourgeoisie eschewed conspicuous consumption.
I’ll mention (2) and (3) another time.
My shed has a shoddy, disreputable face. You wouldn’t know it harbors a recluse of proud, lower-middle-class rank.
(C) 2018 James Mansfield Nichols. All rights reserved.