The Real Builders of the Pyramids

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The ancient Egyptians used to put the innards of pharaohs into canopic jars and then place them deep in tombs, laying them reverently next to the pharaoh’s mummified body. This is what books and the internet will tell you. However, this is a lie known only to the overseer of the canopic jar factory.

Books and the web claim that pharaohs were wrapped up in bandages and deposited under tons of stone with these four little jars by their side to help them to achieve the afterlife. This is another lie, again known only to the overseer of the canopic jar factory. The fact is these jars that held the separated vital organs from the body, sealed tight under magical lids, were intended to ensure that that person never ever walked the earth, or experienced any afterlife ever again.

In fact it was actually the overseer of the canopic jar factory who personally trussed up certain individuals and stuffed them into pyramids. It’s true.

The doomed soon to be mummified individuals had no doubt driven the canopic pot factory overseer into the realms of utter madness by their acts of witless stupidity.

Imagine the scene: little pots beautifully designed and painted. These jars had been skilfully fashioned from fine clay that had been carefully washed and sieved from the banks of the Nile. Their creation was the result of a long intricate process, a time consuming process, but above all an absolute labour of love.

Perhaps these twinkling jars were first intended to hold delicious spices, or perhaps even glistening gems. Imagine them displayed on a market stall under the subtle Egyptian lighting of a hot setting sun. They would have looked magnificent until the canopic jar maker’s apprentice bumped into the shelving and sent them all crashing to the floor.

When these precious pots were destroyed, in this land of camels, breaking backs and limited straw, the canopic jar overseer finally lost it. He could not have borne their destruction. This was the moment when he turned upon his apprentice.

(Now this next paragraph is not for the squeamish…so do skip ahead…)

He would have ripped out the fool’s innards, stuffed them into the last four unbroken pots and then wrapped the rest of the body in bandages to cover up his ghastly deed.

Howling with rage as he realised he’d just condemned his own soul to the darkest realms of the cosmos by this foul deed, he then began to drag the mummified body out towards the city precincts. His cries must have rent the air. Fellow traders would have closed their shutters out of fear. Children woken from innocent sleep would have cried for their own mummies on hearing the wailing sound of the demented canopic jar overseer dragging the corpse towards the unhallowed ground of the dead beyond the city limits.

It would have been the wonder of the world when the canopic jar overseer, with supercharged demonic strength borne from his despair, was then able to lift slabs of stone weighing tons and hurl them into place over the body. One stone would not have been enough. He needed more to pin down forever the spirit of this clumsy idiot.

So it was that he buried the body unaided under thousands of tons of rocks. There were no slaves building the pyramids. No skilled workers toiling up ramps with blocks and ropes. No, there was just the mad canopic jar factory overseer whose eye for detail and his need to ensure that the person he’d buried would never ever walk again who'd created with his artistry the first pyramid all in one night.

Nonsense, you think?

Really?

Well, it’s not and I’ve got proof!

Let’s start with the clay.

It should have been the ideal teaching situation, most of the children had gone on a trip and there were only six children left. The clay was untouched and glistening fresh from the packet. Music was playing quietly in the background. The sun was shining. All was well with the world.

I demonstrated to my apprentice potters how to form the base of the pot and stressed how it had to be kept loose on the board. I helped ‘The Girl’ first; she is shown again and again how to shape her clay. Finally, she is helped to make a decent base which doesn’t stick to the board, and then I move on.

By the time I get back to her, her pot base is stuck firmly to the board and no longer looks anything like the base I left her with. I sigh inwardly and we begin again.

She has now to roll out sausages for her coiled pot. I hastily reshape her base, show her how to use the slip, help her with the first few coils, and then I move on. It’s going to be a beautiful pot.

On my return she has succeeded in rolling sausages which are in the shape of a miniature python in the process of digesting a double humped camel. Similar coils of bulimic fatness and anorexic thinness have already been ‘added’ to the pot. The light shines through its chinky cracks and glints like Egyptian eyes.

I sigh quietly, demonstrate the rolling of clay sausages again, and move on.

On my return 'The Girl's' pot resembles a drunken wobbly rollercoaster.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say as I take in a deep breath and count slowly to five. ‘We won’t make it any higher. You just need to smooth out the holes gently like this.

I demonstrate. I watch her a moment, she’s doing it perfectly, and then I move on.

When I return she has thinned the pot in places to the wafer thinness of papyrus. Its sides lurch like a drunken Egyptian’s blubbery lips.

‘What happened?’ I exclaim in horror.

The other potters look up with mild interest from their own sturdy chunky pots as ‘The Girl’s’ pot pirouettes around its base with flapping clay skirts.

‘Dunno,’ The girl say. ‘It just went like that.’

I fold, crease, meld and blend the pot back to its intended strong beauty.

‘Now just gently smooth the lip of the pot,’ I say before I move on.

‘Time’s up.’ I announce a few minutes later; and I explain that they are to place their pots on the window sill.

Pots are gently eased from the boards, and I place each one in turn carefully on the window sill.

‘Mine is stuck to the board, ‘The Girl’ moans.

I look.

There is a deformed lifeless thing on her board.

A collapsed heap of grey clay that bears no resemblance to anything.

The clay is firmly stuck to the board.

‘It’s stuck to the board,’ ‘The Girl’ wails.

I am astonished and can barely speak.

’Scrape it off and put it back in the tub,’ I say coldly looking at the clock and realising that there is no time left to help again.

‘I can’t.’ The girl moans. ‘It’s stuck.’

It’s left to me to scrape the clay off the board for her. She skips away and goes for her dinner, while my nails become ingrained with clay.

The following day I give her another chance to make a pot under even closer supervision.

Towards the end of the lesson her pot is looking almost perfect.

I’m keeping a very close eye on her. I have to leave her for a few moments to help somebody on a computer, and of course by the time I return the pot is ruined.

‘What happened?’ I bellow, as all patience is swiftly sapped out of me. ‘What have you done?’

The pot, a gargoylic caricature of itself is thin and floppy again. It also seems to be suddenly super glued to the board.

‘Go and wash you hands now,’ I hiss as I attempt to save it.

By the time ‘The Girl’ returns, it looks like a pot again. She’s pleased and happy as I put it to dry on the safest part of the window ledge. Well out of her reach.

The caretaker at the end of the day is closing the blinds and I lunge to save ‘The Girl’s’ pot from certain destruction. The falling blind would have crushed it, luckily it survived.

The next day we are to make the lids of the jars.

I barely leave the side of ‘The Girl’.

I rescue the lid from sticking to the board. I help her to shape the head and to use the slip to attach the ears. The lid is looking good. I leave her for five seconds and the face has collapsed. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It looks great,’ I lie, as I gently carry the lid away from her and place it to dry.

The following day I mix up some special paints for the group. Another group has joined us and I’m busy helping the younger ones. All ‘The Girl’ has to do is to paint her pot and lid. I’ve ensured that all the paint she is likely to need is close to her, together with paint brushes. All she has to do is paint.

The music is playing softly in the background. There is sunshine. Everyone is happy. I am the happiest canopic jar overseer in the world.

‘My pot’s broken,’ I hear the ‘The Girl’ exclaim suddenly.

I look up in dismay, as she shows me the three pieces of pot she’s holding in her hand.

‘Don’t worry,’ I say quietly. ‘It can be glued back together. Just paint the rest of the pot and I’ll glue it at the end for you.’

When I return the pot is painted in hideous colours. Black is running onto yellow and yellow into black.

‘I’ve finished,’ The Girl declares.

I ask her to use more of the black to paint over the mistakes. I make the mistake of picking up the lid of her pot and find my hands are now bright red…she’s painted the underneath of the lid and not bothered to warn me. I help her with the black paint. Then I realise she’d got paint on the edge of the table. My new trousers are now covered in bright red paint. I go into a side room to quickly wipe it off before it sets and return to discover that ‘The Girl’ has already used the glue and fixed the broken pieces into place on her pot. They are not in the right places, and look more like ill fitting jigsaws. I search for the missing piece. There is no sign of it. I rescue her hideous pot and put it to dry once more and send her out to join the others on the playground for her own safety.

Above me Egyptian gods are sighing. I look at the chaos on the table where ‘The Girl’ had been sitting. There is clay marking the carpet around where she’d been sat. I’m going to have to scrub it before the cleaner sees it, and goes wild.

It’s then that I hear the ancient whisperings from the canopic jar makers of old…ancient voices of the true builders of the pyramids…they are calling to me from across time… mummify her…mummify her…mummify her...

And oh…it’s so tempting

But luckily for ‘The Girl’ there were no bandages to hand…this time.

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The Wild Book

We did it. We ‘released’ the wild book!

We found the book in Salcey Forest it was a Famous Five Book ‘released’ by a wonderful philanthropic person who lives some where in Oxfordshire.

When we found it, it was wrapped in a plastic bag and resting on a post. We spent an enjoyable afternoon sitting next to a deep bleak pond reading the first chapter.
What a wonderful idea though to read books and then to set them free somewhere for others to read. This is all being done by people at bookcrossing.com. I’d never read Enid Blyton before and I must admit to enjoying the book’s quirkiness.

Today it was our turn to ‘release’ the book. We chose Bucknell Wood which is close to Silverstone. It was our second visit to the wood and we did not have a map. There is a maze of bewildering pathways that you can take. At one point as we decided which of the five possible tracks we should take a fox stood in the distance and watched us. After setting the book down, we then got well and truly lost in the wood.



The paths were muddy and bewildering. It was such a relief to find the main trail again but even then we didn’t know if we were walking in the right direction. It was a relief to find the gate again and our car.

I’m hoping that a good soul walking his or her dogs will find the book and help it on its journey across the world.

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On the trail of the Tudors.

We have visited some wonderful places in our search for Tudor history:

All have delighted us in some way. They are ranked in my order of preference below:

Wonderful warm Hever Castle, with the hidden minstrel playing in the gallery, and the magnificent courtyard where it is possible to look from the same window that Anne Boleyn might once looked through and seen Henry VIII arriving on his horse and being greeted by her father in the courtyard below.

Hampton Court with the actors who took the parts of the Seymours and Katherine Parr and enacted a clever play as they led us through some of the rooms; or where a guide called Grant touched our shoulders and told us of the tapestries before our eyes as the stained glass windows revived their colours with rich blues and purples.

Hatfield House where a guide patiently explained perhaps for the umpteen time the symbolism in the painting of Elizabeth I and where the light was exquisite in room full of armour and paintings of prime ministers.

Grimscote Castle where there were thrones and a room where Margaret Thatcher had once dined; but best of all tame deer and a wonderful woman who could call them to her and who enjoyed telling us about them.

Burghley House where the water features outside were more fun than the rooms depicting Heaven and Hell.

The Tower of London, a nightmare of crowds, where we accidentally stopped to eat sandwiches yards from where the block was once sited for the beheading of queens.

And finally Sudeley Castle which perhaps because it was so cold was the most disappointing of all with so few rooms open and an ‘exhibition’ in the few rooms that were that even tried to simulate a desert! Though even here we found Katherine Parr’s grave to photograph despite the distraction of very, very, very, ugly modern art in the grounds surrounding the chapel in which she is buried.

A big thank you to all the guides we met this year at these venues who made our visit so welcoming and memorable.

The Grim Reaper

I pulled into Morrison’s petrol station.

It had been mysteriously closed for a few days just after the petrol prices had dropped a little; I was pleased to see it re-opened with such a long journey up north ahead of us.

There were long queues at all the pumps.

I pulled into one line and waited.

Eventually, one of the cars moved on, and I pulled into the vacant position.
They had changed the pumps and the payment method. Shivering, I tried to make sense of the new procedure and realised that I was about to pick up the diesel pump instead of the unleaded pump. I put it back quickly, then I realised that the unleaded pump that I needed was chained up and out of action.

Miserably, I returned to the car and pulled up a little to be behind the car in front where an equally befuddled lady was struggling to fill her car with fuel.
I noticed The MAN in the rear view mirror. He was in a steel white car and gesticulating wildly. He had a long suffering wife sitting next to him.

I knew his impatience was aimed at me.

I was not surprised when a few moments later this same MAN suddenly looms at my side and starts tapping on my car window.

I wound my window down.

‘Are you going to leave or just stay sitting there?’ he demanded angrily.
Under a normal sky I would have felt cowed by this attack and would have apologised for taking up valuable space on the planet, when there were clearly more worthy mortals such the MAN that needed more room. But I was not under a normal sky. I was a hideous mean gargoyle-like creature under the incandescent white-iron heated sky of shirt rage (see blog below). I saw the MAN visibly wilt as I turned my iron cold eyes hard upon him.

I spoke slowly but it was hard to disguise the volcanic fury that was lying like burning plutonic rock in my throat.

‘I came here to get petrol,’ I said coldly. ‘The unleaded petrol pump is not working.’ I added simply, trying hard not to add a sulphurous hiss. ‘I am waiting for the lady in front of me to finish putting petrol into her car. When she has finished then I will move my car into that space.’

I indicated the woman who in front of me who seemed to be even more befuddled than ever.

The MAN though would not have it.

‘Can’t you pull forward?’ he demanded.

I wondered what spatial dimensions the MAN could see that were invisible to me. There was no space for me to pull forwards into and even had I been able to so then he still would not have been able to reach the diesel pump.

‘When the lady in front of me leaves, then I will be able to pull forward.’ I said biting hard on the metallic nails I wanted to spit.

It was at that point that he looked into the car. The shirt hanging up above the back seat had hidden The Teenager. The MAN saw The Teenager for the first time. I think the MAN had thought that he was dealing with just a lone woman and this had given him his false courage.

I saw him take a step back on realising that there was a Teenager in the car; and then another step as he glanced at the back seat.

He left without another word and half a minute later I was able to pull forward into the vacant space once the woman ahead of me left; and he was able to reach the pump too.

The instructions were incomprehensible and the screen didn’t change. There were supposed to be buttons to press, but I hadn’t a clue as to where there were. I puzzled over it fuming. Eventually, I was able to get petrol to work and went inside the kiosk to pay.

‘I couldn’t get it to work properly,’ I said.

‘There was a fault here,’ they explained cheerily. ‘It will work next time you use it.’ A pretty girl with a Morrison’s sash explained. She looked like a beauty queen and smiled warmly at me.

‘And why is the hose still so short? It barely reaches the petrol tank,’ I complained. ‘It seems ridiculous that the pumps have been redesigned and the hose is still so short.’

Normally, I wouldn’t complain and just accept design flaws such as the ridiculously short hoses on petrol pumps as an example of endearing British quirkiness, but fired up with Shirt Rage and now anger at the Man’s recent impatience I’d moved into a whole new realm of intolerance myself.

The beauty queen, no doubt employed by Morrison’s to help with customer relations and to keep fraught tempers calm as frustrated customers struggled in their attempt to understand the new system, smiled warmly at me again.

I felt my gargoylian features set into harder uglier lines as I returned heavily back to the car.

The Man had gone. I guessed he’d been too impatient to work out how to use the new pumps. Or perhaps it had been fear.

I looked on the back seat and saw what had caused him to take his last final step away from my car.

Looking realistic in the garish light of the petrol station was a scythe.

Its blade looked keen and mean.

It was part of a Halloween costume.

The teenager was going to dress up as the Grim Reaper and we were going to show the costume to his grandparents.

I realised now why The Man had backed away. Who would dare risk arguing further with a gargoylic woman, with a teenager sitting by her side, and scythe ready and waiting on the back seat?

Smiling and empowered, I swung the car onto the dark road for the long journey north.

Shirt Rage

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It is a truth universally acknowledged that a shirt freshly ironed and gently hung on a hanger will be scrounged up into a crumpled ball and left on the settee in less than an hour.

‘Teenager!’ I yelled up the stairs with blood curdling near hysterical tones on finding the ruined shirt.

He beams at me from the safety of the landing as I demand an explanation.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that.’ he says cheerily. ‘Nobody will notice the creases once I’m wearing a jumper over it.’

His logic is faultless and infuriating.

I inwardly burn like white-hot metal.

I’m trying to get things ready for the wedding but I feel as though I’m climbing a slippery ice mountain and getting less than nowhere with the preparations.

The brand new clothes bought only a week before which I requested The Teenager not to wear and to keep pristine for the wedding have all been worn. The new shirts are now residing in the fusty warmth of the clothes basket together with the neat new trousers, and worst of all the brand new jumper has been worn and lost.

The blue shirt I’d just ironed was his old school one I’d only just ironed for him.

I iron out the creases again, and then lament having to iron his old school trousers that will just have to do.

There are other smart clean jumpers but he won’t wear them. I’m forced to rescue his favourite old black jumper from the very bottom of the wash basket. It is damp with a sickly sweet smell, and I notice at the hem at the back that a new hole has laddered.

I sew yet another repair with incandescent fingers before I iron it.

The Teenager won’t take a tie. He refuses to wear one.

I could argue but it would not be in the interests of World peace.

Gently, I fold and pack the chosen ruined ironed clothes neatly in a bag.

I hang the shirt up at the back of the car on its hanger.

We are later setting off than I’d planned, and we pull away from the house, having checked to make sure the door is really locked a thousand times, with me barely able to speak.

On the back seat The Teenager's ragamuffin wedding clothes gently perfume the car with their ‘sweet’ aroma. The Teenager blithely watches the world slip past his window unaware that a freshly forged grim metallic gargoyle-like creature is now hunched over the steering wheel and squatting at his side.