The Professor Peregrine Papers

Some years ago the Professor's work “Sylvan Ascendance” caused a considerable amount of perturbation almost amounting to a prototypical brouhaha. The question of how apparent levitation could be achieved was discussed at length by art critics, aeronautical engineers, savants and other rampallions.  In preparation for this work, the Professor was known to have instigated a process of non dualist meditation and trampolining but was also rumoured to have been seen installing a system of wires and hoists. He now refuses to discuss this brief period of his life in any way. Although one night shortly before the last winter solstice, following a tasting of aged Calvados, he did disclose to me in confidence that, “I'm damned if I could remember how to get the unfortunate participants down again.” Shortly after this mystifying spectacle, the Professor moved on to take up the post of Principal Curator of Unexplained Trinkets at the Pudleston Bauble Museum.

One October night, returning from a walk through narrow streets, she stood before her window and said, "That is not what I meant, at all" After so much time, the memory is submerged so deeply that I no longer fear rebuke. I could answer you, but I cannot offer a new love song.

October 4th 1926 Rue Lafayette, Paris André Breton sees Nadja for the first time. A new day. I put on gloves of foam. Much later, à la station balnéaire, I became gloves of horsehair. Time for tea. I'm putting the kettle on. Effrontément.

Eight o'clock, Place du Châtelet: As he sat outside his favourite café, Daglet Scribacious was surprised by a visit from the ghost of Paul Éluard.

Earlier this year the Professor and his closest academic colleagues celebrated Plough Monday in their traditional manner with fine displays of old metal buckets in several unexpected places. Happily, I did succeed in finding one of these secret locations. After admiring the aged containers, I took away one of the cards scattered in the vicinity and meditated on its meaning as I played a mixtape of Bernart de Ventadorn's greatest hits.  The following morning I awoke, as so often in the past, to what sounded like a robin singing Verdi while perched on a can of soup. 

The following Thursday, while the members of the academy were busy discussing dictionaries, Daniel Brereton experienced a powerful sense of familiarity as he walked through the fire garden.  Low-flying birds watched him with suspicion.

As we wandered behind the happy throng beating the bounds around Priest Weston, I was momentarily puzzled by the Professor's choice of clothing for this festive occasion. I was wearing my ceremonial blazer embroidered with the colours of sunset over Dungeness Beach while the Professor sported bright green cricket pads and a matching top hat.  When I tentatively questioned his appearance, his answer filled me with shame. “You seem to have forgotten that today is William Beldham Day, my boy. I am wearing the appropriate costume, I think you'll find.” Of course, he was entirely correct. My thoughts turned at once to the exemplary ‘Silver Billy’ Beldham and I resolved to recommence work on my unfinished musical “Gentlemen versus Players and a Twelfth Man” at the earliest opportunity.  At the end of the ceremony we gathered at Mitchell's Fold Stone Circle for the customary reading of the epic poem “The Rather Confused Horseman of Black Marsh”, intoned majestically this year by t...

I came across Professor Peregrine descaling a kettle. As is his wont when undertaking such dangerous tasks, he was wearing his faithful, timeworn wicket-keeper's gloves. Amid much imprudent splashing of liquid and fracturing of kitchen items, this activity brought on one of the Professor's legendary nostalgic moods. “Do you remember Binky Theddlethorpe?” he asked, with a faraway look in his eye. I didn't. “And do you remember that fine match in which he took eight wickets while also eating his way through at least the same number of ham and piccalilli sandwiches?” I didn't. “In that case," the Professor went on. “Neither do I. Pass me the abrasive fish slice, if you'd be so kind.” Following a subsequent, exhaustive search in the archives of The Thorpe Malsor Cricket Club and 24 Hour Laundry, I can confirm that the illustrious Binky Theddlethorpe was reputed to be “unplayable” while bowling within the confines of a neolithic landscape.

It is indeed rare for the Professor to become reticent on any subject of academic interest, but he has asked me to make it clear to all interested parties that, following his lecture series given at Lanspresado College in Stretton Grandison, he has nothing more to add concerning the Banbury Egg Incident. He has asked me to stress that there is no point in offering very substantial cash fees in plain, manilla envelopes (sterling or euros), or cases of the finest Armagnac (aged for at least 20 years) or even Test Match tickets (preferably at Lords) to make him change his mind.  Although, being a man of honour, he is willing to listen to such foolish offers purely in a spirit of politeness.

I found these postcards in a manila envelope on which was written “Deep Extra Cover” and “lost tuning fork”. The Professor has no recollection of these postcards.  But, then again, neither do I.

I cannot deny that Uncle Leucocholy loved a pataphor almost as much as Sussex Pond Pudding and games of Wink Murder. And so it was inevitable, perhaps, that he would assume the identity of a member of The Macrosmatic Brass Band whenever he found himself near a windmill. His performances at the celebrations for 29 Gidouille are still remembered fondly in a few arcane parts of Belgium.

I'm sure that many of you will be very familiar with the long-running “Spot The Emeritus Professor” competition in that admirable magazine "The Church Pulverbatch Academic and String Winders Gazette". I recently had a near miss with my entry pointing out Percy Woofits, Emeritus Professor of Applied Numismatic and Thumb Pianos at  Middleton Baggot University.  I ventured to show my entry to Professor Peregrine, who laughed so hard at my schoolboy error that he missed an entire over of questionable leg spin in the match we were watching.  “My dear chap, that figure is clearly Archibald Pooley-Wavering, Emeritus Professor of Theoretical Numismatics and Ocarinas at Lower Netchwood College.”  Of course, he was right and the prize of a month's supply of Osborne biscuits was awarded elsewhere.

One afternoon not long ago, I came upon the Professor relaxing in his conservatory and perusing a dog-eared copy of the unauthorised biography of that fine sportsman William 'Gutta Percha' See. (In my view, the unauthorised and, some say, imaginary biography of Larman Register is a more insightful read - but I forbore from mentioning this). Naturally, we found ourselves in a reflective mood and spent a pleasant hour or so over a cup of broken orange pekoe and a flaky scone reminiscing about the tragi-comic act of the indisputably illustrious Clotworthy Brothers in which they attempted to impersonate trees in the vicinity of late Neolithic stone circles around various parts of our Sceptred Isle.  Of course,  their later work, in which they strayed into the Early Bronze Age and the minefield of interpretative dance has never been as well received by critics and other malefactors, but we were not so hasty in our judgement on that blessed afternoon.

 Back then, beside the lake, we discussed the nature of time endlessly. She cut the water with a pocket knife and it was still water. Although, far from still.  "Remember that." she said. I do remember, but I don't believe that she's still there watching the same water. Perhaps she's watching other water and forgetting.

At that time she had a lingering desire for an absence of atmosphere. The craft that she built would never succeed but that was immaterial. I watched her for an hour as she contemplated flight.  The next day I took a train to the coast.

Listening to the professor's colourful and lengthy tales of his past, it's difficult to avoid the name Reggie "Engine Driver" Faustroll. I asked to hear more about him and, after an exceptionally detailed account of the afternoon Faustroll took 5 for 27 on a turning wicket against a visiting Patagonian 11 at Stockleigh Pomeroy, the professor retrieved an old photograph from his personal archive.  It showed Faustroll in jovial mood at the official opening of the Alfred Jarry monument. Unhappily, the professor has completely forgotten the location of this fine piece of public sculpture. In fact, after a glass or two of a particularly pleasant Madiran, he ventured to suggest that it was now only visible as a metaphor. (Although, he has subsequently denied saying anything of the kind and asserts that he was simply discussing varieties of turnip).