You didn’t tell me about your French trip, Brassie.
No. I’ve just been so frantic sewing all the name tapes into the twins’
clothes. After the start of term I always feel like another holiday. In
fact, whenever we are en vacances as a family I realise that I can’t
recreate the dream of those first magical trips across the Channel.
Yes, I responded with feeling. Do you remember the romantic holidays
with your first boyfriend? Everything was innocent in those days. There
was a sweetness that kids today will never experience, because of the
restraint, which makes the relationships all the more poignant in the
recherche du temps perdu, to make a Proustian reference.
Oh Candia, you always take a cerebral approach to life.
Not at all, I replied, taking a folded up piece of paper from my designer
vintage handbag- a trophy from Help The Ancient charity shop- before their
prices took a Himalayan hike. Read this. I found it in my desk drawer
MISTS OF TIME
It was the smallest port in France. Sea mist
stole in, shrouding an ashen harbour, name
forgotten now. I recollect we kissed,
lay curled in gloom, till dank fog damped our flame
of desire. All around loomed hydrangeas:
the palest lilac I had ever seen.
And though Time’s chromatography changes
the memory of that dimmed scene,
their hue persists; that tone tinctures my mind.
Sere shadows, like Brockenspectres assume
monumental presence; therefore I find
they remain, though all else has lost its bloom.
It rained all day. The French are madly jealous of our success and are accusing us of having magic potions or supernatural wheels. They whine that the judges were favourable to Tom Daley in giving him a second go when he was distracted by overexcited flash photographers. Their Hassan Hirt had been sent home over his hormone levels. Just get over it.
© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012