Insomnia

Tags

Cheryl Cole, Cinderella, Claudius, drawbridge, Faust, Harvey Nichols, insomnia, Judas, Land of Nod, magic lantern, Marcel Proust, Mephistopheles, Potiphar, Samaritans, Swann's Way, World Service

Recently I’ve been having trouble sleeping, Clammie confessed.

Perhaps it is down to excessive caffeine intake, I suggested.

Oh, it’s just that Scheherezade and Isolde have given me their

Christmas lists..

Don’t let your kids blackmail you into overspending.  You could

follow, no, wait!-‘channel’ their desires into the latest Harvey

Nichols’ ploy.

What’s that?

You give them a small gift, such as an eraser, or a toothpick and

spend on yourself.  As  Cheryl Cole keeps reminding her viewers-

‘You’re worth it!’

Hmm..but I think my anxiety is getting worse.  I try to count

backwards from three hundred in threes, but I’m really good at

it now.  I then choose a category, like Antique Furniture, and find

examples for every letter in the alphabet.

How does that work? I enquired.

Well, ‘a’ is for ‘armoire’; ‘b’ is for..

Okay. I get it.  What about ‘x’?

I just leave the difficult letters out.  Sometimes I have to put the

light on and read Proust.  He knew all about the problem.  But reading

in the night annoys Tristram.  So I go downstairs and make a cup

of tea and angst about how I’m going to face the next day, sleep-

deprived.

I remember the opening of Swann’s Way, I sympathised. Proust is

brilliant on night terrors, sleeping in snatches and disorientation on

waking.  But at least you don’t have to create a nest of materials to

keep out the draughts, as he did.

No, but it is cold at three o’clock when I go to the kitchen and the

central heating is off.

Maybe you are just not tired out enough during the day.  Proust

described the agonies of being sent to bed in the summer when he

wasn’t sleepy.  You could buy yourself a Magic Lantern to entertain

yourself.  He had one, I reflected. Or you could write some poetry.

That’s what I do.

Really?  Is that when the Muse descends?

Absolutely.  Look- here’s what I wrote last week, at four am.

I unfolded some lined paper and she put on her spectacles

and read:

A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

It was that time when Mephistopheles

returned to claim the pledged Faustian soul.

It was that time of night when Judas left;

went to Potiphar’s field to hang himself.

It was that time of night when Jesus wept

and sweated drops of blood, in agony.

It was the time of night when heart monitors fail

and the felonious will seize on swag-

when Claudius’ prayers returned to him;

Cinderella’s coach reverted to squash.

That is the time I wake, squint at the clock,

dread the hours of insomnia to come

in a chilled house, when the heating clicks off;

my partner is in a different world.

Instead of counting sheep, dim shooting stars

zip across my night vision for a while.

There is no one to talk to at that time,

save a Samaritan’s listening ear.

(One leaves that organ for the desperate.)

I wonder how this siege is going to end:

an enemy has poisoned all my wells;

my fields have been scorched and fire approaches.

They’re going to find my hidden strongbox.

Tapestries have already become shrouds.

The drawbridge is my only protection.

Once it is breached, vile hordes will fly inside.

And so I rise and reach for dressing gown;

seek with my soles for ice-cold slippers;

fold back my guilt and exit black bedroom,

step by step, unloading hell with each tread,

searching the comfort of a warm kettle,

The World Service, the fridge’s quiet thrum.

Blue standby lights pinpoint where I am;

the oven clock tells me the precise time.

It’s time I was far in the Land of Nod.

.

The Importance of Copyright

Tags

69th position, Andrew Graham-Dixon, Chlamydia, Chow Mein, copyright, Culture Show, FT, Gilbert and George, How To Spend It, Jake and Dinos Chapman, Marriage of Reason and Squalor, Spitalfields, symbolic acceleration to high value, Turner Prize

Clammie and I were sitting in the corner of Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe.  We know each other well enough to be rude, so I was deep

in Saturday’s FT and she was reading the Style section of some other

publication.

Hey, Clammie, I suddenly expostulated. Did you know that the Chapman

Brothers..?

As I said, we are impertinent to each other, so she cut me off

with: Who?

The Chapmans- Chapmen?-those guys called Jake and Dinos who do

joint artworks..

I thought that was Gilbert and George?

No, same kind of concept, but different people, I explained.

I think they both had connections with Spitalfields.  Anyway,

they..

Who?

The Chapmen…produced an artwork that depicted the 69th

sex position, in 2003.

Gosh!  Are there that many?! Sounds like Friday night in our house

when we  order a Chinese takeaway and I just say, ‘I’ll have a No. 69’.

Yeah, and if I’m there, I just say, ‘I’ll have what she’s having’.

We laughed like drains.  So immature!

But no one has made an artwork out of a takeaway, have they?

Clammie pondered aloud.

We could always get in first with an entry for the Turner Prize, I

suggested.  Clammie and Candia interviewed by Andrew Graham-

Dixon on The Culture Show. ‘Chow Really, Really Mean’.

No use, Clammie pointed out.  Everyone would think you were related

to him and we had been promoted through nepotism.  It’s the Dixon

surname that’s the problem.  Candia Stuart doesn’t sound as artistic

as Candia Dixon-Stuart, so I don’t think you could just ditch it!

Oh well, what about these Chapman guys?

She had looked faintly annoyed at having been interrupted in her

investigation through some glossies to determine whether antlers

were passe, or not, in current interiors, as accent pieces.

Well, the brother called Jake mentions that he wrote a novel in 2008

called ‘The Marriage of Reason and Squalor’ and they are planning on

making it into a film.

So?  The title sounds like some relationships I know of.

I told you we could be rude to each other.  Actually, my house is tidier

than hers.

They’re planning on calling it ‘Chlamydia’, after the female character,

I clarified.

Hmm, well I’ve had that name for over thirty five years, she grumbled.

But no doubt my parents didn’t have the foresight to take out a

copyright.

I hope it won’t result in any embarrassment for you, I observed.  They

might be having a go at the comfortable classes, such as ourselves.

How so?

Jake is quoted here as saying:.. our psychodramas furnish the bourgeoisie

with the sense that their world is radical and dangerous and audicious.

Say that again, Clammie requested.  Is there such a word?  Doesn’t he

mean ‘audacious’?

It’s probably a subversion of language, I reflected.  Or a deliberate

lexical sabotage on the part of the FT. They probably don’t appreciate people

who say, as Dino does, that anyone who has surplus money at the end of the

week after feeding themselves and paying for their fuel is a criminal.

No, I suppose not.  I mean the FT takes them out to lunch and then they

insult the readership of their host’s How To Spend It magazine.

She crumpled up her paper napkin and wiped her mouth with it, then

rudely grabbed the article from me and started reading it for herself.

It also says that they are-quote-‘voyeurs of their own work, not authors of

its meaning’, she informed me.  It sounds as if you are in good company,

Candia.  Surely that’s what informs your creativity!

I should hope that my behaviour is not so audicious, I laughed. But I

seriously question whether many people- even in Suttonford- have surplus

money at the end of the month nowadays.

I, for one, don’t, agreed Clammie.  Lattes have gone up so much

recently. It makes me feel radical to be sitting here.

Perhaps you have the answer in your own hands, I suggested.

What? She looked puzzled.

They say that you just need to learn a few tricks about symbolic

acceleration to high value.  Take that napkin..once the film comes out,

with your name, you could sell your authentically crumpled and/or doodled

napkin to a dealer.  Picasso and others did it, so you’d be in a tradition.

You could frame it and claim that it had exophoric reference.

So, you reckon stags’ antlers may be on the way out?

Post-Christmas, I’d say so. Think trash with attitude.   Or sell them the

rights to your name.  Should keep you in cappuccinos for life.

Audicious! she concurred.

Tarka Dahl

Tags

Alsatian, Cobra beer, Drusus, fakir, Food Hygiene Rating, Henry Williamson, Jamie Cullum, Jean Rhys, jellied eels, Kingfisher beer, kipper, lamphrey, mongoose, Naan, Neil Gunn, Pliny, Poppadom, Prawn Dansak, Shahjanee, Silver Darlings, smiggle, Sophie Dahl, Tarka Dahl, Tarka the Otter, Wide Sargasso Sea, Wind in the Willows

Brassica and I decided to go out for a curry at Benares Balti,

since the town was freezing cold.  Apparently they had a new

menu, so we thought we would give it a go.

We were shown to a table for two right under the speaker

which over-amplifies the CD on a loop.  No matter.  I’ve heard it

so many times that I just switch off, as I do when my husband

talks to me about budgeting.

Hmm, Suttonford Shahjanee with saffron rice and star anise sounds

interesting, I opined.

 Two Cobras- half pints, please, Brassie told the levitating waiter.

Where had he come from?  Was there a coil of rope in the corner

where he kept his mongooses?  Mongice?

Okay.  So my friend would like Number 42 and I’ll have the Tarka

Dahl, Brassie informed him politely.

No.  Wait! You can’t possibly, I interjected.  I don’t approve.

What are you on about? queried Brassie.  Why can’t I have it?

Haven’t you read that classic book by Henry Williamson? I asked.

Tarka The Otter.  You can’t eat a curry named after one of those

gloriously sinuous creatures. And what about Portly and his daddy in

Wind in the Willows?  They were practically human.  They complained

about the noisy, materialistic behaviour of other wild creatures in their

environment.  You can’t eat such superior moral beings.  They have much

to instruct their human neighbours.

Especially in a town such as Suttonford, I suppose, Brassie agreed,

grudgingly. But, don’t be ridiculous, Candia!  What’s in a name? as the

Bard said.  Do you think Jamie Cullum and his band avoid post-

performance Indian take-aways, just because he’s married to

Sophie, whose surname is reminiscent of a lentil curry? Indians are

probably the only places open at that time of the morning.  They can’t

afford to be picky.

I turned round, but the waiter had seemingly ascended his rope,

or gone to seek out the Cobras with his mongoose.

Shhh!  It’s just that otters have been spotted in The River Sutton,

I whispered.  It’s all too close to home.

How long have they been there? Brassie silently mouthed.

About five million years, give or take a few periods when they

went on holiday, I informed her.

You don’t think..? Her eyes grew wide.  Rumours of tethered

Alsatians were coming back to haunt her. But she could see the

Food Hygiene Rating certificate showed a 4, so that was

reassuring, surely.

The waiter returned with the drinks.  He lit a candle under the hot

plate.

Have a Prawn Dansak instead, I suggested.

Well, I suppose no one has immortalised their pet prawn, have

they?  Brassie can become very silly.  

I wonder if people have ever curried eels?  I mean, they jellied them,

didn’t they? I mused.  They still do.

Next you’ll be saying that they shouldn’t smiggle them from their

coverts- I think I have used the correct term-as you have just read

Jean Rhys’ The Wide Sargasso Sea!  Or one shouldn’t eat a kipper if

one is a fan of Neil Gunn.

Neil Gunn?

The Silver Darlings, darling!

I broke a Poppadum and dipped it in some chutney.  You know

a Roman Emperor once had a tame lamphrey and Pliny said that

certain notables called their fish by name.  Antonia, the wife of

Drusus, used to hang jewels in their gills.

This lady is ready?  The waiter had crept up on us again.  Very sorry

to say, but no Tarka Dahl tonight.

Well, that’s a relief, I replied.  She’ll have the Prawn Dansak.

Naan?

One plain; one spicy. He noted this down.

Sometimes it’s better not to know, I said to Brassie.  Wait!  Can I

have a Kingfisher, please?

But our attendant fakir had disappeared again.

There’s nothing like a curry on a cold night.

Magical Baby

Tags

Alice Through Looking Glass, doodling, Down Under, flat white, Grandad, Grandma, Grandparent, magical baby, Narnia, Picasso's napkins, Skype, toy monkey

What is this scribble,

Candia? Brassie asked,

picking up my napkin in

Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe.

I cannot help doodling

and I had certain things

on my mind as it neared

Christmas.

What is this Magical Baby

all about? she persisted.

Well, the first frame shows

a plan for a picture of the

baby surrounded by animals

from Down Under.  The baby

is on the other side of the

world from its grandparents,

which makes them sad.

Frame 3 shows Grandma

logging on to Skype and the

picture appearing which

illustrates MB and her

Mummy. 

MB has mush round her mouth and is sucking a toy monkey.  When she

sees Grandma, she smiles and the monkey drops out of her mouth.

She dribbles and drools and then she screams.

Grandma instinctively holds out her arms and MB steps right through

the screen and into her arms.  Now Grandma can pat her big nappy and

cuddle her.

Mummy wonders how MB did that amazing feat!

Grandma smells her head and tickles her and MB blows bubbles and

gives Grandma one of her BEST smiles.

Grandad is looking over Grandma’s shoulder.

Suddenly MB’s face changes colour.  She grows redder and redder,

more and more purple and madder and madder.

Grandma hands her back through the monitor to Mummy and

monkey.

In the 15th frame Mummy asks again how MB managed to do that.

Grandma tells her that all babies are magical and in the 16th she adds

that all mummies and daddies are too.

Finally, she asserts that all Grandmas and Grandads are also magical.

That’s really sweet, Candia.  Most unlike you.  I think it’s a great idea,

especially for a book which grandparents could send to their distant

grandchildren.  It would express their longing to hold and touch their

loved ones.  Why don’t you approach a publisher?  It looks as if you could

practically illustrate it yourself.

No, it was just an idea.  But maybe if I put it on my posting, someone will

be interested and might approach me about it.  It kind of fits in with Alice

through the Looking Glass, or going through the wardrobe to Narnia sort of

thing.

Next you’ll be selling your doodled napkins, like Picasso!  Hey, maybe you

will be able to offer the proprietors of Costamuchamoulah a drawing in

exchange for a couple of Flat Whites and a Florentine or two! over-enthused

Brassie.

And maybe not! I replied, scrunching up my drawings and stuffing them in

my bag.

 

(copyright Candia Dixon-Stewart- except for the name ‘Magical Baby’, which I have since discovered has been used by someone else commercially, although I thought of it independently.  I suppose if a publisher was interested, I could think of an alternative title.)

Requiem

Tags

A German Requiem (Brahms), Basse Normandie, D-Day, John Howard, Lisieux Abbey, Normandy, Pegasus Bridge, St Lo

Clammie commiserated:  I can see that you are affected by your friend’s

demise, Candia.  He seems to have been a marvellous character.

He was, I affirmed.  We really got to know each other when we went to

Normandy as part of a choral group, in order to join forces with a French

choir and the Orchestra of Basse-Normandie, in 1994.  It was to

commemorate D-Day and we ended up singing The Brahms Requiem in seven

towns, over a week.  Then the French choir returned with us and we sang it in

England for an eighth time.  We performed it in German as a symbol of

reconciliation and the congregations and audiences gave us standing ovations,

with tears streaming down their faces. Sometimes the concerts were in

buildings which had been bombed and were partially re-built, as in the case

of the church in St Lo.

Didn’t you say that he took you to Pegasus Bridge?

He did.  We arrived at the bridge and he couldn’t believe his eyes as

Major John Howard was sitting at the cafe, having a beer.  We joined

him.  What a legend he had been.  He’s dead now, of course.  My friend

recognised the old hero immediately, as he was a military historian.

Didn’t you write a poem about your trip?

Oh yes.  I have already posted the one I wrote about Pegasus Bridge,

but I will post another one now, if you like.  It tried to sum up my

emotions when we sang in Lisieux.  That thrilling phrase: Ja, der Geist

spricht still creates shivers down my spine.  I suppose it speaks of the

Spirit of Man, as well as the Holy Ghost.  My friend emanated a vital

force of that Great Soul and, since he had been a brave soldier himself,

here is my poem, in his memory.

Photos: Wikipaedia

EIN DEUTSCHES REQUIEM FUR D-DAY

The breath of that great soul speaks in hushed tones,

soothing survivors of Allied assaults-

Brahms bathing the buttered Normandy stones:

tinting kaleidoscopic windows.  Vaults,

in cross-ribs, soar to swelling resonance;

reverberate sharp reminiscences

of those who suffered in this audience.

Choral voices soften dissonances.

Ja, der Geist spricht.  No permanent abode

can house indomitable souls on earth.

When Destruction came, still sweet music flowed,

inspiring creativity where dearth

had reigned before.  The youthful soldiers sleep,

lullabied to lilt of liberation:

seeds watered by grief of those who now weep.

They’ve passed beyond that twinkling of an eye

and rest, sung heroes.  Heartfelt ovation

from grateful present shows they’ll never die

in memory, or appreciation.

And when that final bugle sounds, they’ll rise,

as one, not knowing discrimination,

to jointly celebrate War’s own demise.

Related archive post on Pegasus Bridge- 12th Nov., 2012.

Fifth Rehearsal

Tags

bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, faggots, gerund, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Paradis XO, St Nicolas

Tension was running high.  There weren’t many weeks left until the St

Nicolas Concert and the Music Department of one-plus-a-few peripatetics

was becoming visibly anxious, willing the older boys’ voices to resist

breaking.

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was almost falling asleep in the foetid heat of the rehearsal room.

Almost, but not quite.  He was there in his capacity of judge and jury,

for he had once sung the lead role in a very good amateur performance

of Camelot, but he refused to lower himself to participate in a school

production.  He regarded himself as a semi-pro.

He was incredibly proud of his daughter, Drusilla, who had been persuaded

to play her harp in the second half of the evening, when Britten’s Ceremony

of  Carols was to have its run through.  He had also passed on a few useful

tips on breathing to Nigel Milford-Haven, tenor and eponomyous Saint,

whose day job made him a little lower than the angels, as far as his

mentor was concerned.

He had been secretly impressed by Nigel’s practical assistance in

manoeuvering Drusilla’s weighty instrument into the hall.  She had been

surprised at such strength being demonstrated from what some would

term a weedy guy -the type who has sand kicked in his face.  Usually she

preferred a bass, but chivalry seemed to be a tenor characteristic, if not a

long-term sustainability feature.

The basses just wondered why he didn’t ask the school caretaker to

assist. They felt they had brains as well as brawn.  But they couldn’t know

how love gave Nigel the power to shift mountains.

Drusilla, being a House Mistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-

Gifted Girl, was playing a dual role.  She was accompanying, in both

senses of the word, some of the members of the girl’s choir, who had been

jolly rousing in the movement where they had been drafted in to brew a

storm in the Journey to Palestine section.  They had to sing, standing in

the upper gallery of the hall, on a pierced wrought iron platform, as if they

were on a boat, but Drusilla had stipulated that they should wear non-

uniform trousers for the evening.  In spite of this modest attire, they still

raised a typhoon of raging emotion in the ranks of the older, pre and mid-

pubescent male voices and nearly made a shipwreck of the session.

Gus’ head was just about to lag and his breathing was threatening to

splutter, when his attention became riveted by the words of the Nunc

Dimittis, which Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster, was conducting so

feelingly.

How very apposite! thought Gus. Those words!  The boys must sing this

at my retirement, in the very near future.  I have been a shepherd; I have

been kind  and courageous: a ‘spendthrift in devotion’.  I have guided boys

through all  kinds of perils, on land and sea…Is that a different hymn?  I

have defended  them from the injustices of cruel men.  I mean, some of

my past colleagues who were quite unreasonable.  Like St Nicolas….Ah! 

Didn’t I overhear Pollux  Willoughby of Transitus A say that I was a legend

in my lunch hour?  Or was it in his lunch hour?

(Maybe it was a deliberate ploy to gain an exemption from litter-picking?)

He could foresee a –what was the collective term for a group of grateful

parents?– ‘pension fund of parents‘ pouring from a brass, no, a golden

vessel, a libation of something very expensive in the alcohol line, say,

Paradis XO, over his head- minus his Panama, naturally.  In that eventuality,

they should keep that nectar in the bottle and should anoint him with

something less valuable.  A laurel wreath would do.

He became lost in this soft focus reverie. Then he had to rush back to mark

some wretched scripts.  He left Nigel to assist with the harp, but noticed

Geoffrey Poskett getting in on the act, much to the tenor’s annoyance.

So, it was disappointing that, the very next day, Snod should have to be

confronting the troublesome John Boothroyd-Smythe, whose family was

experiencing difficulties, as everyone knew.  Still, there was no excuse.  The

bratwurst had behaved reasonably well in the rehearsal the previous

evening, but had disgraced himself in the refectory at lunch, by

commenting audibly, as he expectorated a lump of gristle, that the school

faggots– those culinary delicacies which the dinner ladies had been serving

up for aeons- were probably equine, or the products of the same butcher

that Nicolas, Singing Bishop of Myra/ Lyra?, had condemned for

sausagifying – was that a gerund?- the three pickled boys, Timothy, Mark

and John.

Gus refrained from issuing him with the ultimate punishment: suspension

from school, not physically, though there was a very useful flagpole should

the need arise, but he did require the irritating one to write out The Old

Hundredth in musical notation three times, for the following Friday.

The Senior Master was particularly annoyed as he had been on lunchtime

yard duty and there hadn’t been any faggots left by the time he got to sit

down and invite indigestion.  Only the vegetarian options had remained,

sadly. He was so hungry that he almost felt like eating a boy himself, saintly

prohibition, or not!

Blue Badge Rage

Tags

Blue Peter badge, Camilla Parker Bowles, careless driving, criminal damage, Disabled parking permit, eBay, frost-resistant pots, tax disc, Venus de Milo, zimmer frame

Magda, Ginevra’s carer, had passed her driving test and she was ready

to take the nonagenarian out for a spin to their nearest coffee and gift

shop, housed in a barn, which also retailed garden ornaments, tubs and

plants, in addition to scented bits and bobs.

Magda executed a confident manoeuvre into the disabled bay and she

placed Ginevra’s Blue Badge onto the dashboard, before climbing out in

order to assist the old lady with her zimmer frame.  She would have to stand

for a few minutes until the collapsible wheelchair could be assembled.

There was a sudden blast from a car horn and an irate woman who resembled

a slightly more refined Camilla Parker Bowles rolled her nearside window down

and barked: You don’t look very disabled to me, young woman!

Translated this clearly meant: I think the world owes me a living and I have

an inflated sense of entitlement, so give me what I want: now!

Evidently she had been pipped to the post.

Magda stared with incomprehension: Excuse, what is your problem?

She can walk, can’t she? the obnoxious female continued to rant, indicating

Ginevra with a directional movement of her expensively low lit hair.  Both limbs

seem to be attached.

Ginevra, who was a little aurally challenged, rolled down her window and

enquired: What does this annoying woman want?

She want your parking place, I think, explained Magda, opening the door.

By this time, the woman’s exhaust fumes were causing Magda to cough. See,

she spluttered, pointing to the dashboard: The lady has the Blue Badge, innit?

Oh yes, sneered the woman.  But it has all been changed.  It is based on

ability to walk now.

Ginevra took a sneaky sip from her hip flask, which increased her Dutch

courage- as if she needed any boost!  She addressed the woman thus:

I can’t see your legs, you insolent parvenue, but if there was to be an

independent judgement, I dare say that these would win!  She swung her limbs

out of the door, revealing rather slim ankles and two shapely calves.  These

modelled silk stockings in the Forties and they have supported me for ninety

odd years. They kept me vertical when I served tea to wounded soldiers.  So

let’s see yours then! Walk up and down and we’ll see who has the best pins

for their age.

The woman jumped out of her car, seething and Ginevra laid into her.  As I

thought: elephantine!  And where’s your badge?  Is it a Blue Peter one that

you bought on Ebay?

The confrontational lady leapt back into her vehicle at the sight of Ginevra

gesticulating with one hand while steadying herself on the zimmer with the

other.  She reversed sharply and- crunch! she collided with a large garden

statue, shattering her rear light and damaging her bumper.

Quick!  Note down her number. Magda, shrieked the old warrior.  We need to

report her for careless driving and criminal damage.  She moved incredibly

speedily towards the vehicle.  Her tax disc is out of date! she crowed.

Then, exhausted, she flopped into her wheelchair.

Two witnesses emerged from the barn, having seen and heard the whole

episode from the porch, where they had been inspecting frost-proof pots.

That looks terribly expensive, said one to the other.  She’s left most of her

bumper littered all over the display. 

Oh look! replied her friend. She’s managed to flatten that sign.

She picked it up.  It said: All Breakages Must Be Paid For.

Did you get her number? the first one asked Magda.

Yes.  Can do numbers now, Magda proudly asserted.

Just as well, Ginevra stated firmly.  She’s decapitated that statue.

Yes, said one of the women.  And she’s broken its arms too.

Ginevra didn’t enlighten them that it was a reproduction of the Venus de Milo.

Still, it was a very satisfying start to her outing. And the girls in the coffee

shop gave her a free sweet beverage , in case she was in shock.   While

Magda was looking at the cake domes, the sly pensioner slipped a little

brandy into the cup.  The waitresses even insisted that she take the table

decoration with her as it still had some buds on it which would come out if she

kept it on a sunny window sill.

It was definitely going to be an interesting day and the nice policemen who

took a statement from them were so young- looking! One of them reminded her

of Russ Conway!

She asked him if he played the piano, but he merely looked puzzled

and asked her if she could try to focus and keep to the point.

Threatening and menacing behaviour you say, Mrs Em- what did you say your

name was?

Magda made sure that they noted her name accurately and her address and

mobile number.  She wasn’t phased.  After all, her passsport was in order.

Eternal Summer

Tags

Bentley, campaign table, Eternal Summer, Narcissus, Palladian, Palladian Bridge, Rex Whistler, Salisbury, Spirit of the Age, trompe l'oeil, Vanbrugh

Where did the summer go?  Brassie sighed.

It hath all too short a day, I agreed, quoting the Bard.

There were so many things that I wanted to do.

Such as?

Oh, going to that exhibition in Salisbury with you.  The one

on Rex Whistler that you told me about.  It finished in September,

I think.

It was superb, I replied.  It was infused with The Spirit of The Age.

I was reflecting on it last night and I wrote this, I said, taking out my

tablet and switching it on.

Let’s have a look. Brassie took it from me and put on her varifocals,

which make her look intellectual.  I like the title:  Eternal Summer.

ETERNAL SUMMER

The beautiful set were to inhabit

that brief period, infused by gold dust.

Army kit meticulously laid out

on campaign tables, set for cold luncheon

with the granddaughter of an Archbishop,

or the daughter of a minor canon.

Soldiers formed friendships founded on sonnets,

while steering Bentleys into village ponds

on their way to reckless weekend parties,

where delicately-featured boys kohled

foppish eyes, which burned behind sequinned masks.

Cool aesthetes sketched Palladian bridges;

skinny-dipped in reedy ancestral ponds-

unlike Narcissus, not self-reflecting:

trompe-l’oeil their portal on Arcadia,

where their wills would be done, as in Heaven.

A youth approaching middle-age gunned down

on his first day of action, is preserved

for eternity in that bright nimbus,

in an urn containing his paintbrushes,

air-brushed in a celestial city,

whose Lord must have project-managed Vanbrugh.

He lounges, leaning on a balustrade,

at ease now, in his personal landscape;

waiting for his own Baroque revival.

Salisbury Museum (painting)

Intelligent Parenting?

Tags

arras, Artem, Denmark, eBlaster, Hamlet, intelligent parenting, Laertes, Machiavelli, Montalbano, Ola calendar, Ophelia, paranoia, Pasha, Polonius, Rainbow portrait, Reynaldo, Rosencrantz and Guilderstein, spyware, surveillance

Carrie was eager to spill the beans, and I don’t mean the caffeine

variety, though we were in our favourite haunt, post-Hallowe’en.

Tiger-Lily told me that Juniper’s mother has been spying on her daughter

via eBlaster, she whispered, looking over her shoulder.  Juniper discovered

that her mother was monitoring her every keystroke and was downloading

her e-mails.

Maybe that’s why her daughter can be so aggressive, I replied.  No one

takes kindly to having their privacy invaded.  I mean, take Hamlet..

Hamlet? Carrie looked confused.

Yes, he put on an antic disposition to cover up his anxiety at living in a

surveillance state.

I’d hardly call the Boothroyd-Smythe’s residence a temple to

totalitarianism!

No, I continued, but you take my point about Hamlet being annoyed when

people started influencing his girlfriend and manipulating his best mates?

Well, it’s years since I read the play, stated Carrie.  But, apparently Gisela,

Juniper’s mum contacted a company called SpectreSoft and ordered a

product, which she then had installed on Juniper’s computer.

Well, they used to say that people who eavesdropped never heard

anything good about themselves, I remarked.

The thing was that Juniper had only been Googling stuff for her

coursework and was using Twitter to gossip about a Housemistress called

Miss Fotheringay, who is apparently seeing an older man, to the delectation

of all the girls in her year, Carrie expatiated.

So, it has all been relatively innocent trivia?  But did Juniper find out that her

mother was turning into Elizabeth 1, all ears and eyes, like in that Rainbow

portrait?  

She was furious and ran away to her father’s house.  He supported her

human right to privacy and all sorts of nonsense was raised re/ access.

Sounds over-inflated, I opined.  It’s half term.  I wonder if things will cool

down and she’ll return before school starts?

Well, her trust has been shattered and she says she would prefer to board.

If the school allows it.  Her brother didn’t seem too upset. He just threw out

all her yarn and needles and took over her room, as it has much more space,

Carrie added.

Isn’t John- that’s his name, isn’t it?- worried that his mum may spy

on him?

No.  He says he could disable anything that she tried to attach to his

equipment.  But he considers her cool for trying.

An obnoxious little Polonius-in-the-making!  Someone will spear him

through the arras one day! I ventured.

If Juniper’s put into Miss Fotheringay’s house, then she can spy on her

teacher’s comings and goings for the rest of the girls, Carrie predicted.

St Vitus’ is probably as rotten a state as Denmark!  Girls can be so

Machiavellian!

It’s all about trust and, sadly, human relations were ever thus! I

pronounced. Even Rosencrantz and Guilderstein were traitors and

Ophelia was relaying information about her lover to her father.

Reynaldo was keeping a check on Laertes.  Everyone’s paranoid!

Carrie bit into a piece of shortbread.  I wonder if anyone is spying on

me? I shred all my receipts, but what if Gyles is intercepting my accounts

and he discovers how much I am spending in Costamuchamoulah each

month? What if he sees how many times I have clicked on ‘Artem’, or

‘Pasha’?

Or ‘Montalbano’? I teased.  Just be upfront.  That’s the secret.  Don’t

hide behind an arras.

What’s an arras?  She looked puzzled.

According to the guys, it’s the curvy bit of her anatomy that Ola wiggles

on ‘Strictly’, I informed her.

I shouldn’t worry about Gyles uncovering your secret passions.  All the guys

will be too busy clicking on Ola’s Calendar, by all accounts, so it’s touche and

you can bet that male viewings won’t come in single spies, but in battalions. 

I think your tiny peccadilloes are relatively innocuous and will be below the radar. 

If you’re worried, though, I’d just buy Gyles Ola’s calendar for Christmas.  That’ll

keep him off your tail!

Travels 2- In the Dragon’s Den

Tags

Aunt Augusta, Bunburying, Deborah Meaden, Dragons' Den, flu, Gorgon, Graham Greene, Lemon Drizzle cake, Medusa, nursing home, Snodland, Strictly, Tattoo, tramp stamp

Drusilla placed the box of chocolates on the coffee table in the communal

sitting room of Snodland Nursing Home for Debased Gentry.  With a start,

she realised that she had left the carefully chosen bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for

the Discerning Grandmother in the boot of the car.

Augustus leaned over to plant a peck on the wizened cheek of his Aunt

Augusta.  Unfortunately this did not soften her response.

So where have you been all this time?  Bunburying?  I hope you’ve both had

your flu jabs before coming in here.

Aunt Augusta peered at Drusilla intently, as if awarding her a score out of

ten.

So what do you do for a living, young lady?

Em, I’m a teacher like my father, Dru responded. She did not mention her

mother.

Yes, well, those who can do and those who can’t..

Aunt Augusta, I’ll just go and get a bottle out of the car, interrupted Gus.

This seemed to raise the temperature a little.

Hmm, well I hope that the girls you teach don’t have any of those terrible

tattoos like those so-called dancers on Strictly, the formidable Gorgon

declared, directing her social comment to Dru. I believe the tribal scribbles

are called ‘tramp stamps.’ Corporeal sacrilege in my view!

Dru blushed as she had been decorated herself, but she was not her father’s

daughter for nothing.  Before she could restrain herself she blurted out: I

take it that you are a Daily Mail reader, Aunt Augusta?

Gus re-appeared with the bottle and three glasses which he had borrowed

from the staff kitchen.  A very timely distraction.

The girl’s psychic, Gus.  She takes after me.  Now tell me, whatever your

name is, do you think I’m going to make 100?  Because, if I do, you can all

kiss goodbye to any legacy, because I’ll have drunk it all away!

I’m sure that’s your prerogative, Aunt Augusta, Dru replied with a smile.

You look as if you might well last the course with your famous penchant

for gin and Lemon Drizzle cake…

..is the right answer, the old dear gleefully applauded.  I’m going to have to

change my will.  At last: a member of my family to whom I can relate.  Mind

you, if you were to have one of those dreadful tramp stamps, it would be a

different matter.  Oh yes!  But I am confident that such an intelligent young

woman would never have despoiled her body with anything so crass.  Would

you?  She suddenly turned her gimlet gaze full on to the flummoxed

visitor, which almost petrified Dru as effectively as if she had been forced

to confront Medusa minus a shield, or Deborah Meaden in the Dragons’

Den.

Dru disguised her reply as she swallowed her ice cube the wrong way and had

to be thumped on the back by her father.  Aunt Augusta was not fooled by this

diversionary technique.

As Graham Greene said: Poverty could strike suddenly..like influenza.

But there was no inoculation known which could protect one from the infection

of Aunt Augusta’s manipulation, as Gus knew all too well.