Mitfords, pt. 5

Another monstrosity: Pigeon Pie, a war novel.

At first, it seems a subdued, almost contrite work: an about-face from the fervid, jolly cynicism of Wigs on the Green.

It doesn’t stay that way. By the end, it outdoes its predecessor.

It was written in 1939. Nancy’s sister, Unity, the Hitler enthusiast, had just tried to commit suicide. The war had just begun. Heady days.

Dunkirk … the Battle of Britain … the Blitz … all were forthcoming.

The novel mocks Germans, Lord Haw-Haw, aristocratic volunteerism, the Cabinet, the House of Lords, parachutists, and real and pretending spies. The titular pigeons are messenger pigeons. None is actually baked in a pie. Some, bearing intelligence to the Nazis, are shot down over the Channel.

A surprising number of Germans drown underneath London, in the drains.

The heroine is an utter nitwit.

I confess I am very glad to have read this book.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Daniel went to the physician again today (his own doctor, not the WIC doctor) and got shots. Karin had promised him a treat. She bought him some McDonald’s. They wouldn’t sell her a chicken McGriddle (the best kind). Maybe they don’t sell chicken at breakfast-time anymore. A bore, as the characters say in Mitford. I stayed home with Samuel, who played enthusiastically and in peace.

Since last week, we have had 60-degree (F) temperatures, then snow, then 60-degree temperatures (likely to climb to 70); snow is expected two days from now.

Mitfords, pt. 4

Well, I finished reading the third Mitford book, Wigs on the Green. I kept wondering how it would earn that title.

Chapter 12 hinted that the village festival would be graced by inmates from the local madhouse for peers. (The asylum, in the deepest, darkest, most bucolic Cotswolds, is a replica of Westminster … an inspired touch.)

I thought these doddering ex-members of the House of Lords would initiate the fracas; instead, it’s contested by the village’s rival youth factions: Social Unionists (“Union Jackshirts”) and Pacifists.

One roots for the Union Jackshirts.

The fight scene is a jovial and rousing climax. Alas, the book is mean-spirited on the whole; indeed, distressingly personal.

Who writes a novel mocking one’s little sister? (Even if she is gaga for Hitler.)

A cloistered aristocrat, that’s who.

Still, the book’s scorn isn’t directed against the young fascist heroine – or even her reactionary ancestors – so much as against her cynical hangers-on.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This is Daniel’s last week before his “terrible twos.”

He’s into planets. He plays for hours with softballs, stress balls, and clementines.

Jupiter Planet.

Saturn Planet.

Mars.

Tune (Neptune).

Key (Mercury).

He loves to remove his pants and diaper and streak through the house. We’ve gone back to dressing him in bodysuits, which he can’t take off by himself. We’ve had to buy larger bodysuits to cover his growing frame. He’s less than a head shorter than Samuel.