Sunday, 4 August 2013

OBITUARY: RIP Margaret Merriweather

The Bench where Margaret would rail against twilight till forcibly removed by park wardens.

The Satire today bids farewell to our Environmental & Meteorological Correspondent Margaret Merriweather who has died horrifically in her sleep.

Margaret started on the magazine way back  in the 1940's straight from Cheltenham Ladies College and soon became a regular but thoroughly disliked member of the editorial team. Unfortunately she was heavily litigious even back then so we had no choice but to keep her on.

Anyone who knew Margaret will know she had her eccentricities.

In particular, she could not abide the changing of the seasons. The very idea for example of Spring turning into Summer abhored Margaret. And as a young child she had campaigned vigorously, tirelessly, passionately and utterly pointlessly for a world-wide ban on all seasons.

Her two nemeses were Frankie Vali and the 17th century Italian composer Antonio Vivaldi, whose grave she faithfully shat on every year on his birthday. Even into her 90's, where she had to be helped from her bathchair and held over the headstone by her long-suffering grandchildren, she insisted on keeping up the protest.

From the earliest age, Margaret had actively and visibly displayed her contempt for the seasons in every way she could - wearing flimsy swimwear and flipflops in the December blizzards of 1962, donning full eskimo gear during the scorching 1976 heatwave and taking great delight in only eating pears which had yet to ripen.

But her tireless efforts had no effect and the seasons carried on regardless.

Towards the end of her life, her intolerance begun to extend to the concept of day turning into night and she had eventually refused to sleep at all saying enigmatically, 'That just encourages the cheeky cunt!"

She leaves behind a weary husband and 12 traumatised grandchildren.


Anonymous said...

Whilst I pass on my condolences to her family, frankly I'm glad she's dead. She held me personally responsible for autumn and used to put human excrement through my letter box every September for over 40 years. My wife eventually left me and I turned to alcohol, losing decades to drink, huddled in the corner of my living room with the curtains drawn against her constant and malevolent presence. Finally, my living nightmare is over.

Ian MacAskill, BBC Weather Centre

Tom Laird said...

Farewell then Margaret indeed. I have the fondest of memories of her coming into the office each January and unceremoniously tearing her desk calendar to shreds in apoplectic rage. Of course mingles would painstakingly glue it all together again.Partly to enrage her further,but mainly because he was OCD and had a passion for seasons that Margaret found perplexing.
She will be sorely missed.

Tom Laird said...

Somewhat less endearing on the other hand, was her relentless harassment of the Shakespearean actor Paul Scofield, and the play write Robert Bolt was forced to flee the country and go into hiding. Still her copy was always in on deadline.

Anonymous said...

Oh yes very clever. Is this meant to be funny? My late mother was a Temporephobe and it's no laughing matter I can tell you.May you all die a wasting bone cancerous death. In March.

M. Twatpiece