Chapter Twenty Three
Pignut Minster

They crossed the road and continued on their way in secret. Eventually, they arrived at the conference to find not only that they were late, but that Dumbledalf and other members of the Brethren were being assailed by Vol-au-vent’s people, though Vol-au-vent kept himself clear of the sordid squabbling by remaining away from the main hall. Even now, Dumbledalf was face to face and in an angry exchange with Vol-au-vent’s top ally, the Dean of Arts, old Nightshade Kingwitch himself. The imposing stature of Kingwitch towered over him, as he glared down at Dumbledalf, but it looked to all onlookers as if Dumbledalf had become rather aroused by the experience, though he was trying to hide it with his gown, and this was clearly unsettling Kingwitch. Looking on from a little distance, a smirking Theodore considered that his timing had turned out to be perfect, and he was not at all concerned for his friend. The situation, however, was tense. Nightshade Kingwitch looked poised to strike him, but for those who could see, it was Dumbledalf who commanded the intellectual authority and power.

“Old fool; Look now. Thith ith my are!”, screamed Kingwitch.
“You will need longer than that to say anything sensible, I should guess.”, replied Dumbledalf, with a look that he would give to a transgressing child.

The tension was broken suddenly by young Hermetica Strange’s rape alarm. Feeling in her bag for her Ventolin, she had inadvertently triggered it. In the ensuing hubbub, she and Theodore, who was standing not far away, were soon the subject of increased attention as the head of a delegation from the Regional Oracle of Numerancy, somewhere in Kent, began a verbal assault on Theodore. Hermetica considered that the poor old fellow was in a bit of a stupor at the best of times, but he seemed to be holding his own against the southerners. A sudden cracking fart, courtesy of the pickled onion element of his recent ploughman’s, saw off the attack, with the RONs falling quickly away, gasping.

As the noisome smoke and dust cleared, a tall, overweight figure (proud with puffed-up public school arrogance), elegantly dressed in expensive velvet and silk gown, with perfect hair, and bearing a can of mace, walked steadily towards Theodore. This was no lecturer from a crappy parochial college, this was the Dean of Arts himself, Professor of Esoteric and Irrelevant Codswallop, veteran of a hundred conferences, author of two books (‘Poetry and the Working Family’ and ‘The Poet’s Guide to Pimlico’), chief ally of Vol-au-vent himself.

Nightshade Kingwitch advanced, trampling under foot the rucksacks, briefcases, and even laptops, of conference delegates. Theodore, unable to move from being doubled up with pain from a mixture of trapped wind and laughter after his most recent and triumphant blast, did not fully comprehend his predicament. Suddenly, up jumped Hermetica.

“Where do you think you are going, foul dwimmerlaik?” demanded her trembling but defiant voice.
“Wherefore, thou fool, speak thee this way, young brat?” enquired Kingwitch.
Hermetica shrugged. “Dunno”, she said, “got it out of a book. But get away from him anyway you fatuous old dilettante”.
Kingwitch’s laughter was painful to bear. “Thou foolst”, he said, “Stand not between thy Dean of Art-th and hith admonishment of a mithcreant, or I shalth not admonith thee in thy turn, but will bear thee back to the thenate room, and lecture thee about the common manth underthtanding of the plathe of art in the high thtreet, until your thoul is metaphorically cruthed and your will to live utterly broken.”, he said, his meter broken.
Hermetica couldn’t be bothered with this. “Shut up, you old fraud”, she said, and moved towards him.
“I have a heart condithion. If you hit me, it’th murder”, he said, affectedly. Hermetica flicked him in the ear with a rolled up copy of the day’s agenda.
Nightshade Kingwitch looked truly shocked, and muttered, “How could you?” as he frantically rifled in his manbag for a mirror. Then came a piercing shriek, “My hair! You horrible brat, you’ve ruined me!”, and before their eyes, the mighty Dean of Arts dissolved into tears.
“What a performance!” observed a passing annelid.

Though all around arguments raged, there seemed no resolution until Hagrigorn and chums burst in, late, and covered in cobwebs. Seizing his opportunity, Hagrigorn rushed to the stage and, with dazzling, spectacular and cunning skill with the microphone, called for an adjournment to the session, if nobody objected, that is. The meeting dispersed. Vol-au-vent made a brief appearance, whereupon he was unexpectedly escorted by a young woman.

“Professor Rowling.”, she said, “Can you say a few words for the Education Pages? Rowling stopped, unsure whether to glare or be flattered by the media attention.
“Education pages of what? Who are you, young lady?”, he said, shortly.
“Juniper Berry, from The Bourgeois”, came the reply, accompanied by a delicate hand, thrust forward in a more formal greeting.
Rowling’s faced changed. “No comment Ms Berry”, he said. She smiled but he turned his back on her and walked off.
“Turd”, she said.