The first thing one notices upon passing through the portal is the sign ‘Strictly No Goats Allowed!’ One is then taken – ‘drawn’ almost, as if by a hand imperceptible – into a living area, which is spick and span, yet comfortable and homey, with range, fireplace, coffee machine and wine rack. To one side, a corridor branches off, leading into what is evidently the control room. All instruments and panels are neatly labelled, and it takes a careful eye to spot what looks like a gouge mark in the oak panelling. Opening a drawer, I found a slim book with the title ‘How to Dispose of a Goat Carcase’, then, glancing out of the window, noticed some still smouldering embers at the far side of the immaculate lawn. A pair of horns had been shaped into a saltire with copper wire and placed on the fence to deter unwanted intruders; next to it was a sign, which I could not read, as its back was towards me. Significantly, though, it was the same size and made of the same material as the one that had greeted me on entering this cosmic wonderland.
Time today to tell of only one more of the many rooms through which I wandered for what seemed like hours in a state part way between wonderment and awe. Entering this chamber I was struck at once by the mixture of the old and the new, the ancient and the modern. An Apple computer with a screensaver showing a group of particularly scruffy individuals, some of whom were holding electric guitars in what may generously be called deeply slung positions, dominated a modern white table with matching swivel chair with ergonomic headrest. Coffee had been spilt on the keyboard and only the most cursory effort made to clear it up. But it was to the floor beside the table that my gaze was drawn. Two identical cages, each housing bowls containing the remnants of shredded wheat and glasses of semi-skimmed milk, lay side by side, separated only by a witeboard with the words ‘Res agendae hodie’. The cages themselves had name-plates marked in a steeply cursive script: ‘Puella major’ and ‘Puella minor’. Stooping down low, I saw that each had a book inside it: in the former was Abbott and Mansfield’s Primer of Greek Grammar, while the latter housed Winnie Ille Pu. (To be continued…)
27 minutes for this, but I did it at Mach 2 so I may actually have finished before I started for all I know.
ACROSS
1. SHAFT – SH + AFT.
4. SET SQUARE – ‘class item’; SET (series) + SQUARE (four is 2 to the power of 2).
9. OARSWOMAN – anagram* of WAR SO + OMAN.
10. ATRIA – A TRIA[l].
11. TIMBRE – M[arginally] B[etter] in TIRE
12. HEATLESS – ‘cold’; H + ‘EAT LESS!’
14. MAN OF LETTERS – um, yes – moving along…
17. STAGE WHISPER – ‘aside’ ; SAW THREE PIGS* (the anagrind is ‘cast’).
20. AMORETTO – ‘little Cupid’ – easily confused – especially by an idealogue – with amaretto (a liqueur); A + MORE + OTT (reversed – ‘reclining’). Nice clue.
21. FAMOUS – MO in FAUS[t]. If someone had asked me before I entered the time machine to name two operas by the John Malkovich lookalike, I would have failed.
23. STING – ‘smart’; T in SING.
24. ELIMINATE – hidden across five words (or six, if you do not do contractions).
25. MAKE HASTE – ‘move it’; SHAKE* (‘dancing’ is the anagrindicator) in MATE (couple).
26. THERE – ‘told you so!’; THE + RE.
DOWN
1. SHOWTIME – WITH SOME* (‘somersaults’ is anagrinder).
2. ACRIMONY – ‘the spleen’; IM in A CRONY.
3. TOWER OF STRENGTH – ‘rock’; a play on words involving TOW and TOWER supplies the whimsicality here.
4. SUMO – SUM + O. Maybe it’s because I’m not Japanese, but I find it hard to think of sumo as a sport; more as a chance for men with long hair who don’t diet to walk around in nappies held up by a very large belt in front of their adoring fans.
5. TINSELTOWN – TIN + L in SET + OWN.
6. QUARTER FINALIST – ‘one of eight left’; IRAQ AFTER INSULT* (if you want to know what the anagrind is, ask horryd).
7. AGREED – ‘you’re on’; REED (after) follows A + G[anja].
8. ELAPSE – ‘pass’; S + PALE (all reversed – ‘going north’) + E; POLE and PALE, meaning stake, look alike because they share the same Latin root (palus).
13. WEIGHTLESS – ‘floating’ – I have 2 Combined Science O-levels, and they tell me that if you are not apparently acted on by gravity you are likely to float, unless someone chains you to the floor of the capsule; W (with) + EIGHTLESS (without a crew).
15. UP-TO-DATE – if you are ‘up’ to date someone, then you are looking forward to the experience of going out with them.
16. GRASMERE – R in GAS + MERE; many beautiful walks start from this lake in Cumberland.
18. BALSAM – BALSA + [ny]M[ph] for the resinous stuff found in shampoos, etc.
19. KODIAK – AID + OK (all reversed) followed by K[oala] for the large subspecies of brown bear inhabiting the Kodiak Archipelago of SW Alaska.
22. FINE – double definition.
31 minutes of ordinary Monday fare with 14ac MAN OF LETTERS FOI and 18dn BALSAM LOI
My only quibble was the G in 7dn AGREED with the G being ‘little taste of ganga’. Yes but no but!
COD 2dn ACRIMONY amd WOD 5dn TINSELTOWN
17ac reminiscent of Pass the Pigs — a one-time favourite with my kids.
The puzzle was quite easy and I’d have finished within target (30 minutes) but for a problem at 7dn, my LOI, where I thought I was looking for an obscure drug-related word A + anagram [on grass] of YOU’RE.
On another matter, I have decided to switch to Chrome as my default browser but now when I print puzzles in the Club (which I prefer as I like the print grey option), the lines and shaded areas in the grid are out of alignment (as shown in my user pic). In “print preview” they look fine. Does anyone have any suggestions please?
Edited at 2016-11-14 06:51 am (UTC)
Work around: expand the greyed window on the Club site so that the whole grid and clues are shown. Take a screen shot of that area and print it??
Even if you finished before you started, you would have a hard time beating Verlaine today!
Thought STAGE WHISPER was very good.
Thanks setter, and get well soon Ulaca.
Lots of crafty cluing with lateral thought required, but somehow still not too difficult or obscure, so kudos to the setter.
9ac: I only had the first O and the only O nation (I think) is Oman, which turned out to be the one needed in the answer.
6dn: made easier by the fact that there seem to have been a few similar clues of late.
Edited at 2016-11-14 05:04 am (UTC)
I’ve never tried 2010 Calon Ségur but I’ll be careful if I’m ever offered it.
I already suspected that recent events had done wonders for worldwide sales of hallucinogens. Further, very entertaining evidence provided above. But heck, that’s obviously how Lewis Carroll got his best work done. Welcome to Monday, ulaca.
Edited at 2016-11-14 08:20 am (UTC)
COD to SHOWTIME for a first class surface.
Ulaca, you’re wasted here (…take that as you wish…)!
Edited at 2016-11-14 09:46 am (UTC)
Whinge of the week over.
I’d probably have managed a better time if I’d not dopily put in “post haste” for 25, but the lack of anywhere sane to put a K in 19d made me suspect a mistake and it all came right in the end. KODIAK and BALSAM therefore my last two in.
Some lovely clueing here, I thought, with HEATLESS prompting the loudest groan for me.
I also possess a time machine, but mine is stuck on forward, roughly at one minute per minute. I have no idea how it works.
I didn’t find it as easy as the rest of you today, not on the wavelength, but nice puzzle nevertheless.
Rob
This was moderate for a Monday, 20 minutes, although I struggled to finish the NW corner AGREED and ELAPSE giving me 5 minutes of grief.
Verlaine I learned a lesson the hard way when I was aun undergrad, never drink from an unlabelled bottle or a punch whose contents are unknown. My tutor had a do at his house and plied us with punch with added Teepol, I of course wolfed it down and was bubbling nastily for days, lesson learned.
Actually, on edit, I’ll just say that whilst Ulaca’s preamble made virtually no sense to me it was far more enlightening than the Sharepoint training I was on this morning.
Edited at 2016-11-14 01:59 pm (UTC)
As to the puzzle, I enjoyed it and found it a bit chewier than the average Monday, taking 37 minutes. AGREED/ATRIA were my LOsI – I didn’t get the “detailing” thing at all, and therefore floundered. AMORETTO was unknown, though I’m familiar with the near-namesake liqueur, a traditional pre-hangover drink.
A delightful start to the week, though.
(My time machine has a mind-reading dongle attached to it and keeps trying to whisk me back to the days when Edmund Akenhead was Times crossword editor.)