Tales Of The Gurrier

After the psychic visited, mother’s cutlery was never the same again. The forks took on a life of their own and concealed themselves endlessly in the muddle of the pantry. They would be unearthed in the strangest places, twisted and entwined together like exhausted lovers. They became almost bohemian in their behaviour fraternising with the soup spoons and encouraging them to perverse levels of concavity.

Matters came to a head in July of that year when two of the dinner knives became vegetarian and refused to cut any meat. My father was furious and threatened to have the entire set replaced. Mother was distraught and took to her bed. My sister Gwendolyn begged him to relent as the collection; a gift from the Archbishop to my grandmother on her wedding day, was Mother’s pride and joy. He was mollified only when my eldest brother Bertram succeeded in carving a roast with the help of three of the fishknives and a cabal of randy dessert spoons.

This brief entente in the cutlery war lasted until Christmas when to my Father’s everlasting aggravation the entire cadre of teaspoons committed ritual suicide during the dessert course drowning themselves in their teacups. This was the final straw and Father had the entire collection melted down and made into candlesticks for the Vicar. Mother was inconsolable and never forgave him.

The following Easter the candlesticks toppled over setting fire to the altar cloth. The chapel was burned to the ground and the Vicar badly singed. Father locked himself in his study and expired of shame within the week. Bertie and Gwendolyn were packed off to boarding school for good and I was left in the house with the governess and poor Mother, now a nervous wreck.

At night we could hear the last two salad forks who had escaped the cutlery putsch skittering about in the attic and in the morning Cook would find tiny trails of flour criss-crossing the kitchen flagstones.

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Fork 1 Originally uploaded by 20thCenturyGirl.

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