Links to Chapter One and Chapter Two
Edmund slipped and shivered through the snow until he eventually found the Witch’s castle. It looked quite creepy, but bolstered by thoughts of Turkish Delight (oh, his Saracens – and the Scarlets were his favourite Welsh side), he crept through the imposing main gate.
He found himself in a courtyard filled with statues. They had snow settling on them, and they all looked very sad. Near the gate, there were a couple of magnificent Lions, and then he spotted a statue that looked very like Lucy’s description of Mr Iknus. There was a collection of stone rugby balls, and what looked like a few referees. (“Those referees probably deserved it,” thought Edmund.)
Suddenly, Edmund was rooted to the spot by a chilling low growl. He turned his head to find himself staring into the eyes of Maugrim, chief of the Witch’s Very Secret Police.
“Come,” said Maugrim, “Her Majesty is expecting you.”
* * *
“What!” said the Witch, not at all friendly like the last time, “Have you come alone? I told you to bring the Daughters of Maeve and the other Son of George.”
“B – b – but,” stammered Edmund, afraid of her icy stare and stern manner, “I couldn’t get them away from the Beavers. They were all talking about the return of Paulan to Narnia.”
The Queen turned even paler, if that were possible.
“Paulan!” she muttered to herself, “No, it cannot be possible. My spells are strong.”
Before Edmund knew what had happened, she had crossed the room and spear-tackled him with one strong arm. “Tell me all,” she said, preparing to drive his head into the ground.
Edmund, quaking with fear, told her all that he knew.
The Witch released him with a thump on the floor, and clapped her hands to summon her minions.
“Harness the springboks and prepare my sledge immediately! Get my dwarf! Maugrim: take the swiftest of your wolves, go to the Lodge, and kill the children and the Beavers. If they have already gone, then proceed to the Stone Stadium.”
In the twinkling of a drop goal, the sledge pulled up, driven by a dwarf who looked suspiciously like a scrum-half. Edmund was bound, and unceremoniously dumped into the bottom of the sledge. There wasn’t even any Turkish Delight.
* * *
“Susan,” said Peter, “Where’s Edmund?”
“I – I don’t know. Now that you mention it, I haven’t noticed him for a while.”
“Ah, children,” said Mr Beaver, “I’m afraid he’s gone to see the Witch. We must be on our way quickly.”
“What?”, said Lucy, “No, surely Edmund would never betray us.”
“Daughter, I’m afraid he has the look of one who is in the Witch’s favour. How long that favour lasts is another matter.
“Did anyone notice when he left? Did he hear that Paulan is on the move?”
Nobody was quite sure.
“Then we must be off at once. Mrs Beaver, please pack us up as quickly as you can.”
Mrs Beaver – for of course it’s always the females who are prepared for anything – had already got nearly everything ready for travelling. She had a pack ready for everyone, and they were off in less time than it takes to reset a scrum.
* * *
They had a long, cold and weary journey, and stopped after some hours at a safe hiding place, where they cast themselves down on the floor, covered themselves with the blankets kindly provided by Mrs Beaver, and fell asleep immediately.
They were awakened at dawn by some faint voices, which became clearer as they drew closer.
“Ho, ho ho! Go left! It’s on!”
“I’m straighter than that throw-in.”
The children rubbed the sleep from their eyes and looked in confusion at the Beavers.
“It’s Father Jiffy and Father Nige,” beamed Mr Beaver. “The Witch’s magic has kept them from Narnia for so long, but her enchantment is fading. The voices of rugby have returned to the land.” They rushed outside to find a volley of rugby balls flying through the air, and the snow at last melting.
Ovally Balls 
Tomp – ignore me. I’m sure you are very dapper in the casino.
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Man eventually believes.
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Men have fights
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“Who’s Ralph Bellamy?”
He looks like Hildy Johnson’s fiance.
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Craigs, here’s a pic of me last time I was in Glasgow. I was in a convertible with CJ when it started to rain and I took cover while he insisted on trying to track sag down:
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That would be the last time anyone that smart was on Sauchiehall Street….
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U2 at the Calabash here in Joburg was one of my top 5 concerts. Even the crap stuff was brilliant live. And this is from someone who stopped listening them by the mid-90s.
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Oh. Moved on from that?
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Can’t believe TomP is impersonating me in that pic! Well, at least he pbotoshopped some hair into it. And some stylish clothing. And cut out the beer belly. Ah, fuck.
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At least he didn’t put me in Bulls jersey. But I suppose that’s the opposite of sartorial splendour by definition.
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980 to go. This may take a while.
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Oh dog. Jenkins has published another farticle. I don’t think I’ll bother reading it, especially as the comments aren’t turned on.
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Thaum – schools and universities have to do away with exams, apparently. You didn’t miss much.
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Yeah, I read the headline & decided to leave it. I’m one of those who loved exams and hated homework. Didn’t see the point in turning in tedious homework if I could pass the exams.
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‘CJ’
*swoons*
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Am I allowed to like Lucinda Williams?
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I think Ticht is a fan, DCI. I’m an admirer more than a fan, I find her voice just raggedy for my tastes. Same way as I like Dylan for the songs he’s written, but just can’t listen to him sing too many of them at a time.
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CJ likes ABBA……
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No.
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BB,
Ah, I like Dylan and Cohen and Lee Marvin for their voices, so that probably explains it.
Thaum,
Always a rebel, me.
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Brookter – I *love* Cohen, and while I quite like some Dylan, I think others (Cocker, Ferry, eg) have done his songs more justice. Can’t comment on Lee Marvin.
To tell the truth, I can just tolerate one or two Lucinda Williams tracks.
My favourite Dylan song as performed by Bob is probably Dark Eyes off Empire Burlesque, but it seems to have disappeared off the web again.
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There are a few other Dylan songs that I don’t think anyone else could do as well, eg The Times They are a-Changing.
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And Positively Fourth Street.
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Rainy Day Women #12 & 35 for me.
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I liked Dylan during the Eddie years
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Johnny Cash does Bob Dylan
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OT – fuck’s sake, I’m not falling for that. Bryan Ferry’s version every time.
Brookter – oh yeah, everybody must get stoned. Wish I had a spliff. It’s been a rough week.
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Someone mention Waylon ?
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I love Lucinda Williams. Don’t listen to the plebs, DCI.
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Hi AVS.
I’d never heard of her till she appeared on the Apple Music Roadhouse playlist a few days ago, and that track stood out, so I had a wander through the back catalogue. I tend to leave whatever I’m listening to on repeat rather than find something else, so it will be there for a while longer. Sorry, Thaum.
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Yes, same here… helped that my school recognised that was the system back then – so we did full-blown ‘end of term’ exams …..well, every term. By the time we reached ‘O’ levels we were experts in taking exams.
Oddly, enough at degree level – I opted mainly for courses that had strong (50%+) course work elements
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Ferry’s version of “Hard Rain” is great…. not sure anyone but Bob can do “Like A Rollin’ Stone” or “Subterranean Homesick Blues”
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@TomP – great photo of Cary…sorry, I mean YOU in Glasgow.
On your way to a lecture on the intercostal clavicle by any chance?
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I was an expert at exams, suits my fundamentally lazy character. I just treated it as a game, particularly at university. I worked out what questions were likely to be asked, what I needed to do to answer them, and as long as I could get the right answer 70% of the time on average, I was fine.
Didn’t need to revise that way, more time to watch crap on the telly.
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Yeah, some topics will come up year in, year out as they’re fundamental – you probably get 15/20 for knowing the main 4-5 points on those topics. Move on to the next question and get 15/20 there…
As you say , it’s a game/process you can get good at as well.
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One of my classmates at university (History degree) told me his secret plan was to have 4 or 5 essays showing a variety of approaches prepared for exams and then just swap names and dates as appropriate for the question.
There was a quote from William Carr – “The German liberals were caught on the horns of a cruel dilemma” – that I adapated and used in just about every essay I wrote at university.
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“British businessman Sir Richard Branson is looking to this weekend to debut one of his new space systems.”
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At uni I realised that there was an inverse relationship between the amount of time spent studying or doing the work and the grade I got.
Less was more. So I developed a system where I allocated a day of revision for each topic and drew a spider diagram and memorised some potentially useful quotes. Possibly an ‘original thought’ here and there. I would spend an hour before the exam just reading the spider diagram over and over. Always did better than spending ages getting to grips with and understanding the topics.
Didn’t work for my accountancy qualification. That was a real bitch.
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I could probably make millions selling my ‘system’ as a cramming guide.
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‘probably’
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I hated exams and still do, if I’d been good as passing them I might have a different attitude to them right enough, but my inability to work quickly always counted against me. If you broke it down I’d score very highly for the work I’d done but I always ran out of time and seldom finished.
Also, you can teach exam technique, the private schools are good at this, in general. You can rush through the curriculum and then spend a year or more doing mocks and analysing which questions are likely to come up and so spend a lot of time perfecting model answers.
If your business depends on getting your pupils into good universities this is an obvious way to go about things, rather than waste time teaching an understanding of the subject from first principles
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I was an expert at exams, suits my fundamentally lazy character. I just treated it as a game, particularly at university. I worked out what questions were likely to be asked, what I needed to do to answer them, and as long as I could get the right answer 70% of the time on average, I was fine.
OT is Dirk Gently and I claim my five quid.
At uni here I just looked at who was marking the paper and wrote a piece loosely based on the question that pandered to their political bias. Got me to Masters level. How sad is that?
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@ticht
I completely agree, and that is what you (not you, Ticht) are paying for. What the private schools also teach pupils is effectively to be very good actors. A couple of boys from my lads cricket club are at a private school and at the age of 8 last year were doing presentation skills. These presentation skills appeared to be being able to speak for 2 minutes without saying “er” or “um” – so you appear confident and knowledgeable at a superficial level. It doesn’t matter that you don’t necessarily understand what you are talking about, wearing a veneer of competence is key. And I see it in the world of work – those people you see who speak very confidently and assuredly, yet can quickly be caught out as BSing, tend to have been to a private school. Problem is they tend to get promoted before the bosses realise they’ve been had.
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@deebee
DG made use of the fundamental interconnectedness of all things. I didn’t do too bad in my quantum mechanics final exam.
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Must have missed the bullshitting lessons at my school.
Pretty sure that people who went to state schools have the gift of the gab too.
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We certainly didn’t have Gift of the Gab lessons at my comp.
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Just to say – my school was a (catholic) grammar school, so not only private schools can play at that game. My old school is (notionally) a comprehensive now (since 1977)
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I went to a private school here in SA. We finished the finals curriculum about a year ahead of schedule and spent most of Year 12 doing exams papers and 1st year uni papers. It was a godsend in 1st year as the transition was pretty easy. We had toastmasters but no specific actual public BS-ing lessons. That said, most of the kids already an entitled self-confidence from their rich parents. We were the poor cousins.
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Agree with Deebee that money and privilege breed confidence more than the actual lessons at private schools.
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