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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Monthly Archives: August 2013

Butt Out!

29 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Humour, News, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Writing

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Tags

Betamax, Chicago, damnatio memoriae, Disney princess, Josephine Baker, Megane, Miley Cyrus, MTV Video Music Award, Renault, selfie, twerking

Baker Banana.jpg

The hot news in Suttonford this morning was that Bad Girl and Not Exactly

Disney Princess, Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe has been gated by her mother,

the hard-pressed Gisela, for posting a selfie of her twerking talents on the

internet.

The little hussy’s brother, John, grassed on her to exact revenge as his sister

had recently imprisoned him in his bedroom by yarn-bombing the door handle

and had shouted at him through the keyhole that he should take up twerping.

I don’t understand these girls, Brassica opined.  I’m so glad that I only have

boys to deal with. I mean, those latex costumes that the girls wear when they

gyrate- they must chafe horribly!

I offered no response initially, but just stirred my flat white and then reflected

aloud:  Miley Cyrus’ dance moves at some music event did not shock me

particularly.  After all, anyone who has had to teach teenagers is basically

desensitised to their in-your-face antics.  If they want to make twerks of

themselves in public, plus ca change.  Sticking one’s butt out and shaking it

has become a bit passe, a bit of a cliche.  Even Renault used the concept to

sell their boring cars.  Different if it was daring and arty, like, say, Josephine

Baker wiggling all those bananas, but frankly, my dear, most of these little

shockers just make me yawn.

Renault Megane front 20080104.jpg

Hmm, Brassie nodded, I suppose it HAS all been done before.  Goodness

knows what ‘all that jazz’ was in the musical, Chicago.  Something unsavoury

about rolling down your stockings, breaking your garters and an activity with

your girdle was in the lyrics, as far as I recall.

I believe so, I confirmed.  Just give all these pranks the good old damnatio

memoriae treatment.  Like, okay, kids, we’ve seen it all before.  Try to be

more original.  Let’s face it, we have changed the nappies on all too many

butts.  Been there; done that; gave the Betamax video to the charity shop

yonks ago.

Betamax Tape v2.jpg

Brassie swallowed some of her coffee the wrong way and choked.

Candia, you’re not telling me that YOU did some of those moves once upon a

time?!

Them that asks no questions aren’t told a lie, I quoted and gave her a wink.

Now, butt out, as the current terminology goes!  End of.

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Is this the way to Amarillo?

28 Wednesday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Humour, Summer 2012, Suttonford, television, Writing

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Amaretto, Amarillo, Amontillado, Anne Boleyn, aperro, armadillo, Asterix, Barbara Cartland, Big issue, Bridge over River Kwai, Depardieu, Fanny Cradock, GPS, intelligent traffic lights, Mr Blobby, Peter Kay, Pompeii, Richter scale, River Roach, Rochefort, sink hole, Suttonford, tachograph, tachycardia, Tony Christie, Ville Fleurie

Chlamydia, to give her full title, and I were counting out our lives in

coffee spoons, as is our wont, outside Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe.

That’s the umpteenth lorry to pass in under two minutes, Clammie

expostulated.  This village is being ruined with congestion; is being shaken

by tremors which would register as peak on the Richter scale and is being

buried under a  thick coating of diesel dust which is beginning to settle on us

like the petrified victims of Pompeii.

She put her cappucino down and the spoon rattled and reverberated for

a couple of seconds on the saucer.

Yes, I agreed.  We will probably disappear down a sink hole in the middle of

High Street at any minute.  I’m fed up breathing and filtering dangerous levels

of particulate matter.  Maybe I could buy a mask like the Japanese wear when

there is smog.

Suddenly there was a violent shudder and we observed a particularly serious

case of Pantechnicon HGV coitus fixatus: ie/ two lorries had wedged

themselves together in a surreal parody of that legendary locked together

syndrome which allegedly is presented at A&E departments the world over.

Bonne fin de matinee, mesdames!  I am in Suttonford-no?

The voice emanated from the cabin of the nearside lorry whose window was

down. The driver looked a little bit like Tony Christie.

Yes, we replied, but we sincerely wish that you weren’t!  Nothing personal.

Desole, but I am seeking the bridge over the River Roach, he continued.

Well, said Carrie, rather sarcastically, you are nearly as far from

it as from The Bridge over the River Kwai.

Quoi? he said.

Kwai, she replied.

Peter Kay comedy masterclass at University of Salford 12 December 2012.jpg

It was like that question so popularised by Peter Kay: Is this the way to

Amarillo? Someone could have asked if he meant ‘armadillo’, or Amontillado

and so on.  Once I had thought of that fortified liqueur, my mind crossed over

to wondering if Ginevra had any in store and whether she would mind me

dropping by for an aperro.

Roach!  We did not recognise le sujet de sa parlance.

Oui, he insisted.  Suttonford-a village which is bisected by the River Roach.

It said that it was once called Rochefort.

This was becoming even more bizarre.

Non, stressed Clammie.  Suttonford was once called Newtown, or

something comme ca.  Are you pas certain que vous n’ avez pas lu

la carte sans vos lunettes?  And Rochefort is in your neck of the EU,

I’d have said.

The traffic was backing up High Street.  This was turning out to be no

brief encounter of any ordinal numero.  The savvy locals sipped their coffees

and proclaimed that this was another example of how necessary the new

breed of Intelligent Traffic Lights was to the general well-being of their

community.

Clammie put on her spectacles.  Now she could see that the driver actually

resembled Mr Blobby rather than the other perambulant pilgrim in the song.

Mais, I used my GPS, he shook his head.  I looked for Suttonford Bridge, as

I was warned that there is a double chicane- tres dangereux.

Clammie referred to her phone.  She had Googled ‘Suttonford’.

Someone tooted impatiently at Monsieur Le Perdu, pas Depardieu,

malheureusement.

Gérard Depardieu Cannes 2010.jpg

Then my friend raised her voice as only the linguistically challenged can,

and do. This is Suttonford, she explained.  But not in Essex.  Not once

called Rochford.

She turned to me: Rochford – that’s where Anne Boleyn was born.  She

volunteered this pearl of wisdom while a suite of hoots, or a cacophony of

klaxons that might have characterised a Modernist symphony let rip.

She looked directly at the driver and credited him with not knowing combien

flageolets fait cinq.

Try using a carte and a soupcon de savoir faire, she advised.  Tournez and

depechez-vous tout de suite. Immediatement! she shouted and stamped her

designer kitten heel in a fashion that any Gaul, including Asterix, would

fully comprehend.

Asterix1.png

Les autres Suttonfords are in Illinois, imbecile, she warmed to her theme,

Waikerie-South Australia-Texas and Tennessee, but c’est impossible to

conduire la.

The driver was now looking rather mouton-like.

Volte-face! screamed Clammie.

Bystanders applauded and started to film the 180 degree about-

face as I think this translated.

Two cracked paving slabs and an uprooted bollard later, he proceeded up

High Street, with a hanging basket like a Barbara Cartland or Fanny Cradock

millinery marvel on the roof of his cab.  He had narrowly missed committing

manslaughter by his lack of observation of the jaywalking Big Issue seller.

Ville Fleurie, but not for long, I commented.

He’ll have to keep an eye on his tachograph, said Clammie calmly, now that the

situation had returned to whatever was regarded as normal.

And on his tachycardia, I added.

What about ours? she queried.

I know.  Let’s go and see Ginevra.  She can show us the way to a glass of

Amaretto, or whatever she has in her wine cupboard.  Sha la la la la la.

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Delayed Gratification

24 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Poetry, Romance, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Agen, Armagnac, Bradford on Avon, Camembert, Dali clock, Fleury, FT Weekend, Lake Isle Innisfree, Screwpull, Shrink and Sage, tarte aux pruneaux, The Longs Arms, Winnie-the-Pooh, Yeats

Augustus Snodbury was cherishing his final few Saturdays before term

resumed. It had been an eventful summer, but he was a little concerned that

he might outstay his welcome at his erstwhile lover’s cottage in Bradford-on-

Avon.  References to guests and fish past their sell-by dates and the impact of

more than three day visits loomed on the horizon of that giant of a mind.

Ablutions had to be curtailed in the mornings as there was only one bathroom

and their daughter, Drusilla, seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time on

waxing her moustache.

Snod had brought back several packets of his favourite Agen prunes from their

French foray. (I think he had also secreted some bottles of Armagnac, but to

our tale!)  Though an aid to digestion, not to mention that other bodily

function, whose initial letter is also ‘d’, the wizened fruit meant that, at times,

there was a degree of urgency as to access to the ablutional premises.  The ‘c’

word did not even come into it.  The efficacy of these little time bombs could

be cataclysmic, nay apocalyptic.

In spite of all that, Drusilla and her mother, Diana, had become increasingly

relaxed in his company and he had learned to resist asking them a series of

questions which he then mentally scored and graded.

The weather had been superb in England and they had taken to sitting outside

in the evening in the small courtyard at the rear of the cottage, surrounded by

tubs of lavender and Diana’s carefully dead-headed roses.

The French cheeses which they thought they had smuggled onto the coach,

but whose presence was fairly obvious to anyone with a normal olfactory

function, ripened in the kitchen, once they had been taken out of the fridge

and the bottle of red was breathing freely after Diana’s Screwpull had

performed its act of liberation.

A bee-endangered species?-landed on the lavender and took only what its

hive required and no more.  Snod began to silently word lines from The Lake

Isle of Innisfree by Yeats.  But one bee did not produce a glade, nor an

individual pot of honey.

Honey!  Wasn’t it Winnie the Poof- oops, a typo!-Pooh who had said that

although eating honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment

just before you began which was even better than the activity itself?

Snod leant back on his chair.  It was HIS chair now, he felt  He picked up

Diana’s FT Weekend magazine and flicked through its pages in reverse.

There was her favourite article by The Shrink and The Sage.  He must read it

to discover what it was that so charmed her.  He could not believe what he

was reading.  It coincided with his interior monologue.

Snod had had time to reflect on his life, when he had stayed in the monastery

guest house at Fleury. He realised that he did not have to grab happiness in

the clumsy fashion he had attempted at The Longs Arms, earlier in the year.

After all, he had waited thirty odd years for moments such as this.  Why should

he become messily entangled in the lives of others?  Relationships could slowly

ripen like the Camembert which was dripping over the cheeseboard like a Dali

clock.

He took his first sip of wine, not having noticed its arrival on the cast iron

table. Diana came out of the back door, carrying a interesting looking flan.

I hope you don’t mind, Gus, but I made a tarte aux pruneaux with those Agens

that you left in the kitchen.

He resisted his initial irritation and decided to optimise his enjoyment:

Servez-vous, he replied and corrected himself by using the tu form almost

immediately.  Toi, he said.  Toi.  And it sounded very good.

And it tasted very good too.

Tarte au pruneau prête à déguster !

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Pester Power

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Family, Humour, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

burying beetle, Edinburgh University, pester power

Mum! Mum!  Can we go to..?

Mum! Mum!  Can we buy..?  

Brassica was becoming frazzled as the school holidays dragged on.

Oh, for a bit of peace and quiet.  Did the twins think money grew on

trees?  Actually, they thought that it popped out of holes in the wall.

The concept of earning any was beyond them.

Right, guys, come over here.  I want to show you something.

Wot? murmured Pollux.

Aw, boring! Castor said, but dragged himself away from the computer

for a nano second.

Don’t be rude, reprimanded Brassie.  It says here– she pointed to her

tablet- that researchers from Edinburgh University who look into the

behaviour patterns of burying beetles have discovered that pestering parents

does not pay.  If the larvae nag their parents for food, then they are

punished.

Aw right?  They have their i-phones confiscated?  joked Pollux.

Don’t be cheeky! replied an exasperated Brassie.  No, the mother simply

eats them.  That is how she controls her squabbling offspring.

Cool- not! said Castor.

Now, I’ve asked you three times to bring down your laundry from your

rooms, so I don’t intend to ask you again, Brassie warned.

And, as if by magic, the twins raced upstairs, throwing their mother a

new respectful look of temporary obedience.

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Cabinet of Curiosities

17 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Humour, Literature, Music, Suttonford, Writing

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cabinet of curiosities, Calypso Carol, Carmen, Daily Mail, Easter Island, Financial Times, Hawaiian shirt, huzun, Istanbul, Moai, Monteverdi, Nobel Prize, Orhan Pamuk, oxymoron, Panama hat, Rolls Royce, Royal Yacht, Simon Schama, Singer sewing machine, The Longs Arms, Weekend Magazine

I always feel guilty when I destroy the barista’s carefully created fern on the

top of my coffee, but, then, one has to drink the frothy arrangement.

Goodness knows, one has paid enough for it, especially at Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.   At least The Financial Times Weekend magazine can be

appropriated from the public wall rack, to compensate.  The Yummies always

go for The Daily Mail, I find.

Oh, the ecstasy of finding Simon Schama and Orhan Pamuk in the same article.

I loved the novel Istanbul and was fascinated by the concept of huzun, a state

of collective memory.

Orhan Pamuk3.jpg

Pamuk has gathered a series of objects which he stores and displays in

cabinets and these items resonate with memory traces of significant moments

in his characters’ lives.  Once these memories are categorised, they can be

stored and owned.

I wondered if I could rent or purchase a building in Suttonford where I could

collect objects connected with the narrative of my characters’ lives?

Re-winding some of my posts, I could imagine the first vitrines exhibiting a

crystal ball which belonged to Sonia, the medium who lives in Royalist House.

An empty bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for the Discerning Grandmother would

represent Sonia’s neighbour, Ginevra.  The latter’s e-novel based on a meeting

of geriatric hearts and minds could be referred to by a mobility scooter, which,

of course, would take up a large glass box on its own- something like the one

which protected HM’s Rolls Royce on The Royal Yacht, Britannia.

HMY Britannia.jpg

Doomed romance would be conveyed by the original Valentine, complete with

its proposal of marriage (never received) which the youthful Augustus

Snodbury slid under the nubile lax mistress, Diana Fotheringay’s door all those

troubled years ago.  The diamond ring which fell down the cracks in the

floorboards at The Longs Arms, but which was recovered, though not without

embarrassment, would also speak volumes to the tender-hearted.

Perhaps there could be an unmade bed which still belongs to Tiger-Lily and a

string of knitted women bishops which was removed from the cathedral

railings in Wintoncester, having been yarn-bombed there by Juniper, the

increasingly famous, gender-fluid, street graffiti artist.

The town’s canine lovers might donate a diamante pug collar belonging to

Pooh-Bah and the ever-present risk of animal vandalism might be portrayed

by the photograph of the priceless Pre-Moai figure from Easter Island, which

Andy, the Border Terrier so thoroughly digested.

Academic life could be shown by the Hawaiian shirt which one of the

Willoughby twins wore when he played the solo marimba in The Calypso Carol

at the end of term concert at St Birinus, and which provoked a caution

regarding the upholding of school rules regarding uniform.

Staying on a musical theme, the programme notes for the Monteverdi concert

in Bath which so riveted Drusilla, Diana and Gus would be interesting to study

in future years, as the cast list so clearly displayed Geoffrey Poskett and Nigel

Milford- Haven, of whom much more has to be said in future posts.

Snod’s battered Panama hat, which he sat on inadvertently at the

aforementioned concert and which Nigel effectively ruined by wearing it

when painting his mother’s bathroom ceiling, should be juxtaposed to set

up a dialogue with the alternative headgear which Nigel’s mother fished out

of her black sack and gave to him to wear to the opera, Carmen.  Placed side

by side, the museum-goer should be able to detect that this hat which Nigel,

or Caligula as he is affectionately called by the children in his care, is going to

return duplicitously to his older colleague in lieu of the original- oh, drat, I’ve

given away the plot..- will be seen to be a size seven and a quarter, and not

the seven and three quarters which Snod has always sported on his rather

large dome of a head.

History, and family history at that, will be brought to life by the inclusion of a

Singer sewing machine which belonged to Jean Waddell, Carrie’s maternal

grandmother.

I am excited by the prospect of making the intangible tangible.  Oxymoron

creates such dynamic tension!

Thank you for the idea, Orhan.  I won’t expect a Nobel Prize for it as it would

be akin to plagiarism, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

(To understand the exophoric references and intertextuality of this entry,

please refer to previous posts!)

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The Equivocation of the Fiend

16 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, History, short story, short story, Suttonford, Theatre, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

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Act of Attainder, Ancient Mariner, Chief justice, Colchester oysters, Dame Alice Lisle, Ellingham, equivocation of the fiend, Great Hall, Habeas Corpus, John Hickes, Judge Jeffreys, Kings Bench, Lord Chancellor, Machiavelli, meteor showers, milk of human kindness, Monmouth Rebellion, Moyles Court, Nelthorpe, The Eclipse, The Hambledon, The Rising Sun, Wapping, Whigs, Winchester Castle

Clammie bumped into me on High Street, Suttonford.

What did you give Brassica to read yesterday, Candia?  She says that

she was up all night and couldn’t sleep.

Oh, just a short story.  I expect she was disturbed because Cosmo and the

twins are in the observatory, watching the meteor showers till dawn.

No, she was spooked.  I saw her down in Wintoncester, in The Square.

She was coming out of The Hambledon with several carrier bags.

Oh, I forgot about their sale.  I must go in and buy The Husband a new

Panama hat.  I love shopping in The Square.  That’s where The Eclipse

is, site of the execution of Dame Alice Lisle.  It put The Rising Sun opposite in

the shade as it were.

Who was Dame Alice Lisle? asked Clammie.

Do you want to be spooked out too?  Mind you, not as much as Cosmo will

be when he sees Brassie’s credit car statement!

Don’t tell me you have another story to tell, Candia!  You are becoming a kind

of female Ancient Mariner.

I’ll e-mail it to you tonight.  Then you can keep Brassie company in the wee

sma’ hours!

What’s it called?

The Equivocation of the Fiend.

How very Shakespearean!  I’ll look forward to it clogging up my inbox!

THE EQUIVOCATION OF THE FIEND

Maybe a writ of Habeas Corpus will liberate me from my confinement

and then I can steal away from this loathsome Tower and gain passage

abroad, but there is no Court competent to assist me in this wise and now

I am fast losing strength.  I am supposed to be thankful for the protection

I have, while the country demands that a retrospective Act of Attainder

should result in my condemnation for multitudinous murders.

The wheel has come full circle.  A mob had congregated outside my

house in Duke Street and mocked the bills which announced the sale of

my property.  Women screamed, offering me their garters, so that I should

hang myself thereby and men raged, advising me to cut my own throat.

I glugged another bottle of brandy to shut out their clamour.

However, I seemed to have one remaining friend – someone who knew of

my predilection for Colchester oysters.  A barrel had been left for me at

the Tower and I burst its bands eagerly.  Inside there was naught but

shells and a halter.  I apprehended its hint. The delivery youth jeered:

“Canst tell how an oyster makes its shell?”

He is not so dim as he looks.

Photo of the top of an oyster

Imagine! Chief Justice of the King’s Bench at thirty five and Lord

Chancellor before my fortieth birthday.  I followed orders and to this

attribute my rapid promotion and even more sudden declension.

I had another birthday recently and there was none to exercise common

charity towards me, or to share a celebration.  I stand accused of a

lack of the milk of human kindness.

I will never be permitted to forget the trial of Dame Alice Lisle.  In

contrast, she was deemed to have shown exemplary, even saintly,

compassion and hospitality towards distressed fugitives, but there was

considerably more to the case than was imputed.

I was compared unfavourably to Nero, Satan, Cain and Judas, but I only

sent Whigs to Heaven.  It was common practice to lash rogues with the

tongue and, after all, I had cross-examined some of the deepest-dyed

criminals in the land.  Their weeping and cries for mercy only served as

an irritant, much like the grit in an oyster shell, but without any valuable

outcome.

How difficult it was to extract the truth from Presbyterian liars! I grew

adept at sniffing one out at forty miles. (Hence the posy of herbs that I

was wont to hold to my nostrils.)  Severities may be properly used, I

believe, in common with Machiavelli.  Particularly in times of threat t

national security.

Portrait of Niccolò Machiavelli by Santi di Tito.jpg

Yes, Dame Alice, I turned a deaf ear to your pleas and you could not hear

the foreman’s delivery of the verdict, by virtue of your three score years

and ten’s consequent infirmity.

A witch, I thought, whose husband had been a regicide and now the old

crone was denying knowledge of the nature of the indictments against

John Hickes and Nelthorpe, initially denying their presence in her house,

Moyles Court. Subsequently she pleaded that she had understood Hickes’

offence to be merely illegal preaching.  She stressed that she had no

sympathy with the Monmouth rebellion, but I persuaded the jury to re-

consider their verdict and, on the third occasion, she was pronounced

guilty, and rightly so, for the Law recognises no distinction between

principals and accessories to treason.

“Let the old witch burn,” I ranted, “and let it be this very afternoon.”

The interfering Winchester clergy made an appeal to me on account of

her age and sex and they gained a respite.  Our sovereign commuted

the sentence to beheading, out of his merciful bounteousness.

Now the populace desire that I should share her fate.  I am eclipsed – ha!-

a play on the title of the marketplace inn where she spent her final night,

before walking out of the first storey window, onto the scaffold.  They

said it should be ever after “The Eclipse,” as it drew all attention from its

neighbouring public house : “The Rising Sunne.”

Barter gave us the information.  She had entertained, concealed,

comforted and maintained the fugitive rebels. The Devil had inspired her

to quibble, as do all witches.  Equivocation is the nature of the Fiend and

all his subjects.  I have oftimes heard his voice in the courtrooms and the

serpent-tongued dame tried to move me by a reminder that she had bred a

brat to fight for James, but if she had been my own mother, I should have

found her guilty, notwithstanding her prevarication that she was being charged

with sheltering Hickes before he was convicted of treason. She stated that

subsequent evidence should not be admitted, since it had not been available.

Very clever: but anyone who harbours a traitor is as guilty as any who bears

arms, I believed, and I hold fast to the same conviction to this day.

“Nay, peace thou monster, shame unto thy sex,

Thou fiend in likeness of a human creature

See thyself, devil!

Proper deformity shows not in the fiend

So horrid as in woman.

Shut your mouth, dame,

Or with this paper shall I stople it.”

The reference was lost on most in court.  Fools pity  villains who

are punished.  Know this: that men are as the time is; to be tender-

minded does not become a sword.

WinchesterCastle.jpg

It is more than three years since that fateful day in August in the Great

Hall of Winchester Castle.  Some say that a lady in grey haunts the inn

and that a driverless coach has been seen in the grounds of the Dame’s

Ringwood estate, drawn by headless horses and containing her phantom.

What is that nonsense to me?  Her head and body were given up to her

family, for burial at Ellingham, and now the Whigs have all but canonised

her, raving about judicial murder.

Yet, when I attempted to escape from this hell-hole, no one would shelter

me in a cupboard, nor a malthouse, and I was discovered at Wapping and

my disguise removed.  No port is free to me; no place that unusual

vigilance will not not attend my taking.  So, here I lie, and suffer the

agony of passing these stones: a pain as sharp as the gravel of her drive,

or an oyster’s grit.

Yet I still resort to my brandy. I am bound upon my own wheel of fire.

My reins are rubbed with sulphurous flames. The gods are just and of

our pleasant vices…  I waken to hear myself cry in the night and then a

distant rumble of carriage wheels approaches, or is it a more horrific

apocalyptic explosion?  Who is it that dare tell me who I am?

“What is that wailing?” I shout to the guard.

“It is the cry of women, my good lord,” he replies through the grille, most

caustically.  “Come here, most learned justicer.”  And then he laughs,

showing black tombstones in place of teeth.

“I have almost forgot the taste of fears.  I have supp’d full of horrors,” I

remark, before I remember the context. How malicious is my fortune that

I must repent to be just.

Equivocation – the only means of survival.  She was more skilled in its

employ than I.

George Jeffreys, 1st Baron Jeffreys of Wem by William Wolfgang Claret.jpg

(The grave of Judge Jeffreys was bombed by German aircraft during the War and his remains scattered.  The grave of Alice Lisle can still be visited in Ellingham churchyard.)

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Death and the Maiden

15 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in History, short story, Summer 2012, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Auld Reekie, Blaw Wearie, Canongate, Castlehill, Edinburgh, Girth Cross, Heart of Midlothian, Holyrood, James VI, Janet Murdo, JeanLivingstone, Kincaid, Lady Warriston, Leith, Lord Dunnipace, Pimms cake, Rev Andrew Cant, Robert Weir, The Boot, The Maiden guillotine, The Wheel, Tolbooth, Winderstrawlee

So, you enjoyed your trip to Edinburgh, Candia?  Brassica asked me,

when we had settled down to our regular routines back home and had

sneaked off for a sly cappuccino .

Yes, its history still breathes and I was inspired to write a short story

in a rather macabre style, adopting the persona of Lady Warriston’s

servant, who witnesses her execution.

Rather grim! commented Brassie. But what is it about?

Read it and see! I said, passing her the copy.

DEATH AND THE MAIDEN

 

It was the summer of 1600 when I was permitted to abandon my loom

and I climbed onto the roof of my mistress’ tenement in the Canongate,

from which an excellent view of the Girth Cross of Holyrood could

easily be discerned.  All around, the citizens of Auld Reekie had

adopted the same strategy and were well-established, in spite of the

early hour.  A  unison intake of breath unbalanced me on my precarious

eyrie, so that I had to grab Nelly’s sleeve for support.

The sinister outline of the Maiden, transported from Halifax, dominated

the scene, looming over the slender figure approaching it.  Well might the

Memorial later describe her as a woman and a bairn.  Apparently, like

myself, she was twenty one, but, she had a child of her own, whereas I

only minded my employers’ weans.

The buzz of conversations receded and I first heard snatches of that

melody which would quickly enter the consciousness of all

Lowland ballad lovers:

O Warriston, ye acted ill

To lift your hand to your ain lady…

Then a ripple of wheeshts surged through the crowds below and Jean

Livingstone, Lady Warriston, removed her gold brocade, stepped

forward on her twa weel-made feet and knelt in her sark.

The parlourmaid, Nelly, poked me in the ribs, observing, She is

as cheerful as if she were going to her own wedding.

The cook shifted her bulk and craned forward dangerously, before adding

sententiously: She appears ravished by a spirit higher than that of man

or woman.

We giggled; she always speaks like her aptly named minister, The Rev.

Andrew Cant.

However, we soon sobered up as the blade began to fall.

Later our chimney sweep, Peter, told us that the blade had fallen just as

she began to pray: Into Thy hand, O…  She had got no further.

He also reported that he had tried to make his way up to Castlehill, to

witness the strangulation and burning of her nurse, Janet Murdo, but the

authorities had arranged the ghastly ceremony simultaneously, in order,

unsuccessfully, to create a counter-attraction, drawing attention away

from the young noblewoman’s plight.

Both punishments had been well- publicised, although the crime had

only been perpetrated a matter of days beforehand.  However, the

timing had been set to maximise and to demonstrate the very satisfying

show of repentance by the Lady, who had been well-rehearsed by the

Revs. Balfour and Bruce, God rest her soul!

Peter said that many in the mob were surprised that her father, the Laird

of Dunnipace, had not exerted himself on her behalf.  He was a well-

known sook, or favourite of King James, who had apparently expressed

His regal regret that such a beautiful young woman should be sacrificed

to Justice:

I never saw a woman’s face

I was sae sorry to see dee.

James I of England by Daniel Mytens.jpg

However, the Laird had seven other daughters to give in marriage and

seemed to want to wash his hands of his errant flesh and blood, in spite of

His Majesty’s hints of potential clemency.

Dunnipace was reputed to have stated:

Gar nail her in a tar barrel

And hurl her in the sea.

Though macabre, these words were to remain in folk memory for many a

month, assisted by their musical setting.

Later, when the ballads were printed on broadsheets, we had the

opportunity to piece the narrative puzzle together, trying to reason why

such a bonny lassie was to lose her head over such a diabolical affair.

Apparently, Jean Livingstone, as she had been christened, had felt ill-

prepared for wedlock and had told her hired woman that she hadna wit

to guide a man. She had learned her rede with admirable haste, many

would say, at the scaffold.

At fifteen she had been sent to John Kincaid, the Laird of Warriston and

her woman claimed to have witnessed violent altercations between them.

A dinner plate had been hurled at her mistress’ face by her furious

husband, cutting her lip badly.

Once when he returned to harbour, having been absent for nigh on a year,

Lady Warriston went to meet him on the shore, with the nurse cradling

their newborn son. Kincaid flew into a rage, struck his wife and cursed

the child, saying it was none of his.  Afterwards, the nurse told the hired

woman that her mistress had an impression of her husband’s teeth deeply

incised into her forearm.

Faithful though the nurse was to her mistress, she ill-advisedly interfered

and persuaded Lady Warriston to contact a groom who had worked for

her father, by the name of Robert Weir.  She pressurised her

by claiming that if they were not able to persuade the groom to do away

with the Laird, then she would do it herself.

Maybe it was the same young ostler who had led her mistress’ pony,

while the master was at sea.  Anyhow, it is too late for Jean Murdo, the

nurse, to express regrets, at the time of this conversation, as by now she is

a heap of ashes.

As for Robert, he was conspicuous by his absence, though

officers were scouring the Borders for him.

Weir, when summoned, came willingly enough and was secreted in

the cellar until the Laird and his brother had been plied with sufficient

alcohol and staggered to their repose.

Jean retired with her husband, but later rose and gave a signal at

midnight.  Her brother-in-law must have been more affected by his cups

than the Laird, who was awakened by the commotion the conspirators

created on entering the marital chamber.

Weir threw himself at Warriston and struck him in the jugular vein,

knocking him off the bed and kicking him on the floor.  Eventually he

strangled him.

Jean ran into the Hall and later admitted that though she had heard his

deathly screams, she had failed to produce even a counterfeit tear.

The groom escaped, gallantly telling Jean that if the crime were to be

discovered, he would take the blame. None dare pursue you, he

foolishly stated.

Perhaps the Laird’s brother had been roused, or the servants disturbed, for

the next morning, officers of justice arrived and took Lady Warriston,

Janet Murdo and two women to the Tolbooth, in The Heart of Midlothian.

Jean attested that the two female servants were innocent, but only one

was released.  It was this woman who had met Peter in a tavern, after the

event on Canongate and who had supplied the missing information over a

pint of porter.

She added that the Laird’s son bore an uncanny resemblance to young

Robert Weir.  Having narrowly escaped the stricture of the Boot, one

would have expected her to keep her trap shut.  She became a member of

the Rev. Balfour’s congregation thereafter and thanked God that she had

been spared.

Theresiana-Beinschrauben.jpg

Balfour told his flock that Lady Warriston’s dramatic repentance was a

miracle of grace.  At first she had repudiated spiritual counsel and

blasphemed, throwing his Bible to the floor of her cell.  Yet, once her

relatives cast her off, she naturally showed a greater interest in flitting to

God.

The title page's central text is:"THE HOLY BIBLE,Conteyning the Old Testament,AND THE NEW:Newly Translated out of the Originall tongues: & with the former Translations diligently compared and revised, by his Majesties speciall Comandement.Appointed to be read in Churches.Imprinted at London by Robert Barker, Printer to the Kings most Excellent Majestie.ANNO DOM. 1611 ."At bottom is:"C. Boel fecit in Richmont.".

Even her brother-in-law forgave her, kissed her and wished that he could

take her to himself, she was so jimp about the middle/ As ony willy-

wand.  Fifteen Presbyterians kept her company on the night before her

execution, so I expect that she slept little and took their spiritual medicine

meekly.

Her father, Lord Kincaid, arranged for the child to be cared for by the

hired woman who was telling us the tale and this same servant afterwards

led a disguised Weir back to catch a glimpse of the sleeping boy in

his cot, four years later. Unfortunately Weir was apprehended as he bent

over the child and practically throttled before being taken to the scaffold

to be broken on the wheel.

Breaking wheel in action

For months thereafter his corpse was

exhibited on the road between Warriston and the town of Leith. Fortune

had turned full circle, but sometimes a passing stranger will detect what

appears to be a female voice singing, when the breezes blow over from

Winderstrawlee and Blaw Wearie:

Now a’ ye gentle maids,

Tak warning now by me

And never marry ane

But wha pleases your ee.

Candia, you’ve scared the living daylights out of me,

Brassie said in a dry-throated voice.  Can we just

return to twenty first century Suttonford, where things are a little less

brutal?  I think I need a slice of cake to give me a calorie boost.

And so it was that we fell on a plate of Pimms cake as if it was our last

meal on Earth.

 

 

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Heavenly Twins

12 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Poetry, Religion, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Benedict, elastica, Fleury, Monte Cassino, Scholastica, yin/yang

Drusilla Fotheringay- she had dispensed with the double-barrelled

Syylk of her erstwhile surname- had been very interested in the

hagiographies connected to Fleury.  She flicked through a

couple of books in the Abbey shop and tried to make sense of what

exactly she had seen and felt.

Benedict she had heard of, but she was touched that there was a

connection with St Scholastica, Benedict’s twin sister.  Surely she

must be a patron saint of female teachers?

Apparently not.  She did ally herself with convulsive children and

thunderstorms, however.  Drusilla decided to adopt her, anyway.  She

would do an assembly about her in the Autumn term.

Andrea Mantegna 019.jpg

Whether St Scholastica was buried at Fleury, or at Le Mans was a moot point,

but one which hadn’t been decided. For neatness, Drusilla decided that she

had been laid to rest in the crypt with her brother.

And if Dru believed it, then it must be so, at some sort of level.

As she read more about the saint, she came to identify with her increasingly.

It was a pity that the name of the sanctified lass seemed to have connotations

with a surgical stocking which might prevent DVTs.  Maybe it just resonated

with an educational publisher’s title.  Or was it more coolly echoing a rock

band?

Dru found her reassuringly familiar, whatever.

ElasticaBand.png

For a start, the nun had been rewarded with a meteorological miracle which put

her brother’s signs and wonders in the shade.  She had been given a divine

imprimatur on her heartfelt desire and her brother had learned that rigidly

sticking to his timetable was not that better part.

Her tears had brought down a hailstorm which prevented him from returning to

Montecassino and his cell.  She reproved him for not listening to her when God

had heard her.  So much for the usual portrayal of Benedict with his finger over

his lips and his injunction to pin back one’s inner ears.  Practise what you

preach seemed to be dinned into him by a loud thunderclap.  Subtlety, Dru

thought, never cuts the moutarde with men.

Drusilla had noted that the Almighty sometimes approved of women and cut

men down to size.  Or at least challenged male authority.  Jesus had quite

liked women.  Hadn’t he?

She did think that women could become too bossy, though.  She had had

negative experience of this in school.  Even her mother was having to learn

about yin/ yang and finding a balance.

Taijitu

Something in the air was eliciting Snod’s feminine side also. Maybe there

was hope for humankind, after all.

She sat on the wall across from the soaring spire and took out her notebook.

After sipping a beer from The Labradoodle Hotel, she penned this poem:

HEAVENLY TWINS

Their Last Supper-did she know?

(Benedict had prophesied his demise)

A twin, she dreaded separation,

so she begged him to delay departure.

He resolved to adhere to his own Rule:

to return to his cell before sundown.

An adept at resisting temptation,

he’d shooed the blackbird, mortified his fllesh

and could spot a poisoned chalice; restore

broken vessels, but worshipped his routine;

whereas Scholastica, in sincere love,

pleaded with him to tarry a little.

When tears did not avail, she cried in prayer-

the clear sky darkened and a storm arose.

Benedict became rooted to the spot.

Angry with his sibling, he lectured her,

but her petition had prevailed with God.

Three days on he witnessed a dove ascend.

Her soul took flight, leaving her corpse below,

illuminated by a beam of light.

Benedict placed her body in his tomb.

Their celestial converse carries on,

their bones together, or apart, at peace,

transcending the rules, united in love.

Fra Angelico 031.jpg

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Transfiguration

10 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Philosophy, Politics, Psychology, Religion, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Balaam, Birinus, Bradford on Avon, compassion, Damascene, David Cameron, epiphany, Feast of the Transfiguration, Financial Times, Fleury Abbey, lax, Loiret, Paul Gilbert, Snodbury, St Paul, Sully sur Loire, The Carpenters, The Longs Arms, The Shrink and The Sage, Weekend Magazine

UNC Lacrosse.jpg

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk, prematurely retired ‘Lax‘ Mistress from St Vitus’ School

For The Academically-Gifted Girl, had been trying to read The Weekend

Magazine from The Financial Times while she was being transported around the

Loiret by her local coach firm from Bradford-on-Avon.  She was staying in a 2*

hotel near Sully-sur-Loire, along with other members of her town’s Twinning

Association.

She had been allowed to bring along a ‘friend‘ and her daughter, since two

people had dropped out at the last minute and there had been seats left

vacant.

Behind Diana was her erstwhile lover, Augustus Snodbury, who was still in

educational harness, so to speak, at St Birinus Middle School.  Their daughter

Drusilla had closed her eyes, but this did not shut out the low, burring sound

which emanated from her father’s rather hairy nostrils.

And what exactly is a Lax Mistress? I hear you question, Dear Reader.

It was a trainer for a particularly vicious outdoor team game played by

innocent-looking maidens, armed with strong lobster nets on poles.

Innocent-looking, in general, but the goalies were of a different, scary

order.

Diana was trying to concentrate on her favourite The Shrink and the

Sage article.

This guide to modern dilemmas by a psychotherapist and philosopher

duo fascinated her.  Diana was looking forward to being a member of the

congregation at The Feast of the Transfiguration in Fleury Abbey and the

rhetorical question which headed the columns struck her with a force as

convincing as the Damascene beam of light which had struck St Paul and

floored him.

It read: Are we compassionate enough?

Diana had been seeking a spiritually significant experience by venturing

on this trip.  Nothing less than an epiphany would satisfy her.  She had

opened her mind and heart to receive any messages that might be

forthcoming.  But could the divine voice speak through The Financial

Times?  She then remembered Balaam’s ass and thought that all things

might be possible.

FT's 125th Anniversary Issue.jpg

A psychologist called Paul Gilbert was being quoted as having stressed that

one must be kind to oneself, as well as to others.  He warned against two

evolution-shaped drives-firstly, the detection and subsequent escape from

danger and, secondly, the drive to acquire things we want, such as food

and sexual partners.

The article recommended a David Cameron-like state of sensing that we are

all..on this journey together.

Here Snod’s snoring seemed to rise in volume and objection.  Already she

was in danger of lapsing into compassion fatigue.

When we are irritated by others, Gilbert said, we should remember that

they are mere humans, like ourselves, who cannot help getting things

wrong sometimes.

But she didn’t snore, did she?  She would check with Drusilla later on,

since they were sharing a room.  Come to think of it, she remembered Dru

buying some ear plugs in Boots, before they set off.

Gilbert mentioned something called compassion under the duvet, which

fortunately was only a practice of reminding ourselves to be kind to others

before we climbed out of bed in the morning.

Suddenly, the scales fell from Diana’s eyes and she realised that she could

now forgive Gus for his appalling ineptitude, if not for his snoring.

He had been clumsy at their attempted reunion at The Longs Arms, but maybe

it had been down to nerves and possibly they could travel hopefully together

and arrive at the same destination one day- so long as it did not involve any

sharing of duvets, other than of the moral variety.

The Sage explained the etymology of the abstract noun, compassion.  It came

from com and pati, meaning to suffer together.

Having both taught for a number of years, they could empathise with each

others’ pain.  She determined to avail herself of any lessons that she might

be offered during the service, but she could sense that her transformation

had only just begun.  Pity that it sounded like a song from The Carpenters.

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Phizzogs

10 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Humour, Suttonford, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Duddingston Loch, Edinburgh Festival, Henry Raeburn, Jack Vettriano, Kenneth Currie, Kirsty Wark, Lord Braxfield, Princes Street, Robert McQueen

Brassie rushed in.

Hi, guys!  Just back.

She placed her ridiculously unstable table number stand

next to ours.  Now we had two numbers.

Spoke to Clammie earlier, she gushed.  But how was Edinburgh,

Candia?  You missed the Festival.

Yes, but I gained the weather, I said.  I did manage to catch the

Kenneth Currie exhibition at The Portait Gallery on the first day.

Is that the guy who paints butlers on wet beaches? Clammie asked.

No, that’s Jack Vettriano, I corrected her.  Currie is a tad more

macabre. He is interested in how age affects the body.

Aren’t we all?! agreed Brassie, ruefully. What else did you

see?

Latter day examples of the Raeburn portraits mobilised on

Princes Street, I observed.  Leopards don’t change their spots.

Here, I wrote a poem about the sense of deja vu.  You can read

it with your latte.

Gee thanks, Candia, said Brassie.  Give me a break.  I’m just

back.

I’ll read it, said Clammie.  Pass it over.  What language is this?

You’ll need to translate!

Raeburn on the Streets of Edinburgh

A’ they pitten-oan, pauchtie Whigs appear

oan the Mound, or even wi’ Kirsty Wark,

debating devolution. Tartan-trewed

museum staff hae a look o’ Robert

McQueen, Lord Braxfield and the Kirk still skates

oan wabblie ice – no oan Duddingston Loch,

but at its ain General Assembly.

The Skating Minister

Next thing they’ll be a’ wearin’ pink trappins

as they tapsalteerie roon key issues.

Slidderie, crabbit, towtie judges

aye hae glancy nebs, and advocates

gaither airt traisures. Quate, lang-drauchit wives

keep oan winnin’ their marital chess games

and take unto themselves mair than thir marrow’s queen:

wummen catch oan fast tae Enlightenment.

Braw, harp-playin’ sirens still turn hoose-ends,

musickers are forespoken by thir world;

bairnies crack thir thoums, so ye gie yir tent;

chiels forget thir first wives efter echt days.

The high heid yins adopt designer cloots

tae hide the fact they are debt-bedevilled.

Thon sappie, pairted lips warsle tae rede

themsels. We can hear them bairge in New Town,

spoat thir reflections in Jenny a’ things.

Thir Portrait Gallery’s oan Princes Street:

there’s that carnaptious phizzog, they chollers:

a’ they bachles oan erstwhile buckled feet.

Reverend J. G. Bryden

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← Older posts

My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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