• About

Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Drusilla

If The Hat Fits

09 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Humour, Music, Suttonford, Theatre, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Augustus Snodbury, avocado bathroom suite, Bradford on Avon, Carmen, Drusilla, Katherine Jenkins, Kathleen Ferrier, Monteverdi, Nigel, Panama, papier mache, Shanks, Sully sur Loire, Toreador song, UVA, UVB

Nigel Milford-Haven sighed as he painted the bathroom ceiling of his mother’s

Cornish bungalow.  He supposed that White With a Hint of Asparagus

complemented her Seventies avocado bath ensemble. Probably retro lovers

would die for a suite like that, but he preferred a clean white Shanks.

Sweat was dripping into his eyes as he used the roller, so he had utilised

the battered Panama which Augustus Snodbury had carelessly left behind

at the seemingly interminable Monteverdi concert he had attended the

previous week.

Nigel intended to produce it with a flourish to the ageing schoolmaster on

their return to St Birinus Middle School at the start of term, but now he had

managed to decorate it with a few paint drips and he wasn’t sure whether

turps would remove them, or would turn the whole item of headgear into a

sort of mushy papier mache mould, redolent of some rare rainforest bird’s

nest.

His wretched mother came in from time to time to inspect the progress.  She

gave him a running commentary on how well other members of their family

were doing and subjected him to lengthy panegyrics concerning the academic

success of his nieces and nephews.  He counted the seconds until she would

commence on her eternal theme as to why he did not have a girlfriend.

This focussed his thoughts on Drusilla.  He wondered if she was

experiencing a similar trial, in that she had been burdened with two parents

this summer.  Would Snod still be hanging around, or would he have moved

on? Not in any transcendental fashion, he corrected himself.  For indeed, Mr

Augustus Snodbury had never been concerned by the vagaries of style and

la mode.  Some men would sport a Panama with a degree of loucheness,

affecting the pose of a lounge lizard who finds himself inadvertently thrust

like a mad dog into the midday sun. But Gus merely donned his particular

straw hat as a shade against contracting any of these nasty scabs which

seemed to irritate his pate and which his GP said were caused by too much

exposure to UVB rays- or was it UVA?  In any case, he wasn’t taking the risk.

Nigel climbed down the ladder, anticipating a cup of tea.  As he stepped off the

final rung, he noticed that the post had arrived and stooped to pick up one or

two letters-mostly junk mail.  To his surprise, he recognised the handwriting of

the school secretary, who had re-directed a postcard which had been

addressed to him. His heart leapt when he saw that it was from Drusilla.  It

featured a chateau- Sully-sur-Loire- and in French was printed the phrase:

Jumelee Avec Bradford-on-Avon, which might explain why they were there.

Dear Nigel,

Having a wonderful time and the parents both in good form.  Something to do

with the house wines?!

Unfortunately Daddy- (!)-has had some sort of sunstroke, so wondered if you

could retrieve his favourite hat and bring it back to school?  He was so

absorbed in the lovely music that he left it on his seat at the interval and,

as you know, we had to rush off as we had left something in the oven.

Thank you so much,

Drusilla Fotheringay.

Hmm, analysed Nigel.  No ‘wish you were here’.

Then he took off the hat and panicked.  How could he return it in that state?

I told you to wear my shower cap, Nige.  Oh, who sent you the postcard?

I do hope it is from a girlfriend..and his mother handed him a china mug, while

simultaneously inspecting his day’s oeuvre.

I doubt it, said Nigel ruefully.  How all things do conspire against me.

Nonsense, retorted his mother.  It’s just a matter of making a bit more effort.

That’s what your school reports always used to say, didn’t they? You just

need to get out and about a bit more.  I’ve got us two tickets for that opera

you were banging on about.  You might meet a nice girl like that Katherine

Jenkins there.

Katherine Jenkins - Live 2011 (39).jpg

What-Carmen? Nigel was really surprised.  But I’ve got nothing to wear!

He wasn’t entirely sure that Katherine Jenkins was all that his mother

supposed.  Sometimes the mater was not such a good judge of character

as she thought.  Probably she was getting the singer mixed up with

Kathleen Ferrier. More her era.

As to character analysis, Snod usually nailed a miscreant in one damning

report.

Nigel tried to rein in his wandering thoughts.

You can wear your father’s linen jacket.  It was a bit crumpled when you

brought it down from the attic in that old suitcase I asked you to carry, but I

ironed it and the smell of mothballs is not too bad now that I’ve aired it. You

can throw that old thing out, she said, snatching the flattened mess on his

head and putting it in the kitchen bin.  Dismissing his protestation, as if it

was an irritating boy who had finished a rather late detention, she added:

There’s a practically unused hat of your father’s, identical to that one, in the

black sack.  I was going to give it to the charity shop, but you might as well

have it.

And no one was more surprised than Mrs Milford-Haven when her somewhat

reserved son hugged her and danced her round the ladder, humming the

Toreador song.

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

Love-Lies-Bleeding

03 Sunday Feb 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Humour, Literature, Romance, Suttonford

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Botox, Bradford on Avon, Diana, Drusilla, Fifty Shades of Grey, lacrosse, Love-lies-bleeding, Mary Berry, Snodbury, Syylk, Valentine, Victoria Sponge

It was almost half-term, but Drusilla had taken staff leave of absence

under the medically advised all-purpose condition suggested by the

sanatorium sister: allergic attack.

She was recuperating in Bradford-on-Avon with her mother, Diana,

who had a lovely little honey-coloured cottage near to the centre,

with a garden full of perennial favourites such as Love-Lies-Bleeding.

She would remain there as dust from the school renovation had to

settle, as must the nuclear mushroom cloud which had been raised

by the discovery of the Snodbury communication from years gone

by.  A blast from the past some vulgarians might have dubbed it.

Her mother had slowly come to understand the swings and arrows

of unrequited love and outrageous fortune.  She accepted that

her immature over-reaction to a lover’s tiff, though personally

interpreted at the time as a mere flutter of a social butterfly’s wing,

had instigated a tsunami of overwhelming heartbreak for everyone

concerned, including unborn generations.  One of the unborn was

sitting before her, very much post-natally present. Diana had

paid for her foolish revenge and acknowledged that she had been

wrong to marry Syylk and to pass Drusilla off as his daughter.  Syylk

had been her man and she had done him wrong. This had been as

crass as some country music lyrics, but she had had no excuse. It had

been painful to see her daughter becoming more and more like her

biological father as she aged in teaching.  At this rate she was going

to need a blowtorch, not Botox!

There were tears, recriminations, justifications and apologies, but

how to respond to the discovery was the real dilemma. Diana felt

that she owed Snod an apology for her years of deceit.  Drusilla

wasn’t sure that she, personally, could face the truth.  What if it

became common knowledge between the staffrooms?  She would

lose all credibility.  Parents’ Evenings could become problematic.  He

might want to catch up on all the occasions he had missed in her

personal development.

Mother, do you still love him? Drusilla asked, crumbling a

monumental slice of Mary Berry’s Victoria Sponge.

Victoria sponge cake recipe

Dru, I’ve never stopped, cried her mother, nevertheless gathering up

all the crumbs on her plate and licking them greedily from the tines

of her cake fork.

Then we must do him the honour of replying sincerely to his ill-fated

missile, said Drusilla decisively.

Missive, corrected Diana.  Honestly, her daughter was supposed to

be a teacher!  Dru’s missile! You wouldn’t have heard such poor English

in their day.  (Their being the times and mores of Snod and herself.)

Diana was increasingly tired of having to proof-read her daughter’s end

of term reports.  Even as a lax mistress, Diana had known how to spell

practise as a verb.  Yes, we will reply very soon, agreed Diana.

No, you will, mother.  It is your responsibility.

I know, Diana, said.  I will send him a Valentine. Let’s find one that is

suitable.  What about this for the verse?:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If you ask me again,

I’ll answer: I do!

Drusilla blanched.  No, she said. How about:

Roses are red,

Like my eyes as they water.

But here’s a surprise-

We both have a daughter!-?

That’s quite good actually, said Diana.

I was joking, said Drusilla. I think we have to be a shade more subtle.

Like that ecru you picked out for your floor paint?

Precisely, answered Drusilla. Tone is all –important- in life and

lifestyle.

Yes, there are fifty shades of grey, I believe.

Drusilla could only hope that her mother hadn’t read it.  Less is

more, she explained.

There speaks the art teacher, sighed Diana. (But it was never the

case in lacrosse, she thought privately.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share this:

  • Twitter
  • Facebook
  • Email
  • Print
  • Tumblr
  • Pinterest

Like this:

Like Loading...

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.

Recent Posts

  • Spiky Cones
  • Geisha in the Garden
  • On the Wing
  • Rape Seed Field at Sunset (and In Full Sun)
  • Buscot Park Azalea in Bloom

Archives

  • May 2022
  • April 2022
  • March 2022
  • February 2022
  • January 2022
  • December 2021
  • November 2021
  • October 2021
  • September 2021
  • August 2021
  • July 2021
  • June 2021
  • May 2021
  • April 2021
  • March 2021
  • February 2021
  • January 2021
  • December 2020
  • November 2020
  • October 2020
  • September 2020
  • August 2020
  • July 2020
  • June 2020
  • May 2020
  • April 2020
  • March 2020
  • February 2020
  • January 2020
  • December 2019
  • November 2019
  • October 2019
  • September 2019
  • August 2019
  • July 2019
  • June 2019
  • May 2019
  • April 2019
  • March 2019
  • February 2019
  • January 2019
  • December 2018
  • November 2018
  • October 2018
  • September 2018
  • August 2018
  • July 2018
  • June 2018
  • May 2018
  • April 2018
  • March 2018
  • February 2018
  • January 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • September 2017
  • August 2017
  • July 2017
  • June 2017
  • May 2017
  • April 2017
  • March 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • July 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • April 2016
  • March 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • November 2015
  • October 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • December 2013
  • November 2013
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013
  • July 2013
  • June 2013
  • May 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012
  • November 2012
  • October 2012
  • September 2012
  • August 2012

Categories

  • Animals
  • Architecture
  • art
  • Arts
  • Autumn
  • Bible
  • Celebrities
  • Community
  • Crime
  • Education
  • Environment
  • Family
  • Fashion
  • Film
  • gardens
  • History
  • Home
  • Horticulture
  • Hot Wings
  • Humour
  • Industries
  • James Bond films
  • Jane Austen
  • Language
  • Literature
  • Media
  • Music
  • mythology
  • Nature
  • News
  • Nostalgia
  • Olympic Games
  • Parenting
  • Personal
  • Philosophy
  • Photography
  • Poetry
  • Politics
  • Psychology
  • Relationships
  • Religion
  • Romance
  • Satire
  • Sculpture
  • short story
  • short story
  • Social Comment
  • Sociology
  • Sport
  • Spring
  • St Swithun's Day
  • Summer
  • Summer 2012
  • Supernatural
  • Suttonford
  • television
  • Tennis
  • Theatre
  • Travel
  • urban farm
  • White Horse
  • winter
  • Writing

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

acrylic acrylic painting acrylics Alex Salmond Andy Murray Ashmolean Australia Autumn barge Blenheim blossom Border Terrier Boris Johnson Bourbon biscuit boussokusekika Bradford on Avon Brassica British Library Buscot Park charcoal Charente choka clerihew Cotswolds David Cameron dawn epiphany Fairford France FT funghi Genji George Osborne Gloucestershire Golden Hour gold leaf Hampshire herbaceous borders Hokusai husband hydrangeas Jane Austen Kelmscott Kirstie Allsopp Lechlade Murasaki Shikibu mushrooms National Trust NSW Olympics Oxford Oxfordshire Pele Tower Pillow Book Prisma reflections Roger Federer Sculpture Shakespeare sheep Spring Spring flowers still life Suttonford Tale of Genji Thames Thames path Theresa May Victoria watercolour William Morris willows Wiltshire Winchester Cathedral winter

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 1,575 other followers

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

  • Follow Following
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Join 1,575 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Candia Comes Clean
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
loading Cancel
Post was not sent - check your email addresses!
Email check failed, please try again
Sorry, your blog cannot share posts by email.
%d bloggers like this: