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Tag Archives: Harley-Davidson

Table Talk

16 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Film, Humour, Literature, Poetry, Politics, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Travel, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Alistair Darling, Arden House, bluestocking, Bogey, Boswell, chiasmus, Desert Father, diaspora, Dr Cruikshank, Dr Finlay's Casebook, Dr Johnson, Dr Snoddy, eggs Benedict, First Minister, Harley-Davidson, Lauren Bacall, Lichfield, Lives of the Poets, Mrs Thrale, Plan B, Rasselas, Sahara, Silk Route, stylites, table talk, Tannochbrae, Voisin

Lauren bacall promo photo.jpg

Shall we skip the Eggs Benedict?  Virginia had asked on their final morning

at the Pele Tower.  Fortunately, Snod was unaware of the implications

inherent in the euphemism that she expressed, in what she fancied was

a Lauren Bacall sultry growl.  He hadn’t watched too many Bond films and

was unlikely to have visited Voisin in NY.

He was anxious to get going before the traffic built up.  Maybe they could

break their journey in The Midlands?  Lichfield, perhaps.  He had always

wanted to visit Samuel Johnson’s birthplace.

It was a pity that he had to curtail the school holiday, but he had to be

available to the new Headmaster for preparatory discussions on what

should be on the agenda at the first Staff Meeting.

Virginia had to check that the printers had produced the new calendar.

The high road that leads to England…the noblest prospect! he quipped,

making reference to one of the great lexicographer’s sayings.

Well, it wasn’t a turn on for our previous Head Teacher, Virginia observed.

He preferred riding on a silk route through The Sahara on his Harley-

Davidson.  Maybe he had to spice up his erstwhile academic life. 

Different kind of caravan holiday from the usual.

Johnson once said there was desert enough in Scotland. Snod’s mind

began to wander to visions of its First Minister as a Desert Father,

sitting ‘on his tod‘ atop a pillar, stylites-style.  Best place for him,

since he advocated splendid isolation for his compatriots.

They do say that Scotland’s education system is superior, mused

Virginia.  Would you agree?

Ah, pontificated Snod, as my essayist hero said of the generic Highlander,

his fearlessness of assertion may either be the sport of negligence, or

the refuge of ignorance.

Sounds like a very astute analysis of Salmond’s performance in his

last debate with Darling.  Virginia’s ripostes were gaining momentum.

I suppose the Scots’ independence of vision might have been nurtured by

the fact that no enemy would invade them, as there is nothing to be

acquired but oil. Yet the natives refer to their home as The Promised

Land.

Samuel Johnson by Joshua Reynolds.jpg

As the good doctor remarked, Snod smiled, God may have made it, but

He made Hell too.  But, to return to the debate, at the end of the evening,

Darling might have addressed his opponent with a Johnsonian put-down:

‘I have found you an argument, but am not obliged to find you an

understanding.’  Or, imagine the effect of a chiasmic remark such as:

Alex, your fantastical Plan B is characterised by features both good and

original. 

However, the part that is good is not original and the part that is

original is not good!

AlistairDarlingABr cropped.jpg

Virginia tried to change the subject since she had always been

taught that politics was not a suitable subject for table talk. At any

rate, we have eaten very well, in spite of the legendary abysmal

Scottish diet.

Yes, returned Snod.  I suppose they have to take sufficient

nourishment to give them the strength to escape from their

terrible weather.  It explains the diaspora.

But this summer we have experienced better weather here than

down south, corrected Virginia.

Yes, but it is always damp.  The whole country consists of stone and

water.  As Dr Johnson told Boswell, there may be a little earth above the

stone in some places, but only a very little.  He described the landscape

as being like a man in rags; the naked skin peeping out.  

James Boswell of Auchinleck.jpg

Oh, I think you enjoyed your stay, in spite of all your grumbling,

laughed Virginia. It wasn’t only Bacall that could tame a Bogeyman.

It’s all a matter of taste, replied Snod.  As Lord Eldon reminded

Boswell, taste is the judgement manifested when [one]

determines to leave Scotland and come to the South.

Mrs Connolly came in unobtrusively, to clear the breakfast dishes.

Virginia stood up to leave and finish her packing.

Don’t be rude, Gus.  Where do you come from, Mrs Connolly?

I do indeed come from Scotland, Mrs Fisher-Giles, but I cannot help it.

She entered into the spirit of the banter.

That…is what a very great many of your countrymen ..cannot help,

retorted Snod.

Barbara Mullen.jpg

He was delighted by the housekeeper’s classless erudition. Their

education must be superior indeed!  Janet might have left Dr Finlay’s

porridge to burn if she had been engrossed in Lives of the Poets, or Dr

Snoddy might have been left unannounced in Arden House’s parlour

while she finished Rasselas over a wee cuppa and an oatcake.

Andrew Cruickshank.jpg

Dr Cameron might have had to clear her etymological index cards from

his desk so that he could pen a prescription in Latin, which she could

have interpreted to the Tannochbrae chemist over a crackly phone

connection.

She was probably the one who wrote the script from the original

casebook.

We’d better be getting on down the road, Mrs Connolly, Snod suddenly

said, rather wearily.

Turning to Virginia he remarked gloomily, At least I only have a few

more pensionless academic sessions to go before I retire.

Oh, cheer up, she flicked a napkin at him, much to the housekeeper’s

delight.  Don’t think of retiring from the world until the world is sorry that

you retire!

As he cleaned his teeth and performed his final ablutions before

the journey, Snod reflected that, surprisingly, he hadn’t tired of

Virginia’s company all that week and, if it was not for the pressing

urgency of his schoolmasterly duties, he wouldn’t mind spending the

rest of his life driving briskly round the countryside with such a pretty

woman who understood him and, as Johnson discovered in the shape

of Mrs Thrale, who could add something to the conversation.  And, come

to think of it, his preferred type of hosiery was definitely now a

bluestocking.

 

 

 

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Stumped for Something to Say

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by Candia in Education, Humour, News, Philosophy, Psychology, Social Comment, Sport, Suttonford, television, Writing

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Christingle, cow shot, Devil's Number, dibbly dobbly, dinks, Educating Essex, glovemanship, Harley-Davidson, innings, mankad, Morality play, Nightwatchman, Ofstead Inspection, pantomime dame, psychobabble, red cherry, Sahara, snickometer, Speech Day, St Birinus, sticky wicket, stodger, stonewaller, tautology, Test Match, the crease, the Yips, World Cup, Zen, Zoota Flipper

Pollock to Hussey.jpg

Augustus Snodbury was trying to compose his Acting Head’s Report

for Speech Day.  He was endeavouring, in vain, to find a string of lexical

chains to give rhetorical cohesion to his oration.

When I first came to the crease, I felt a bit of a Nightwatchman, but I

determined that I would never be a mankad who left before the bowler

released the red cherry.

But would everyone latch onto his cricketing references?  They were

probably anticipating him making allusions to standing on the shoulders

of previous giants, acknowledging colleagues who would be off to

pastures new and so on.  Nevertheless, he decided to be true to his own

field of interest and continued to unearth parables from the sphere of the

Test Match.

When I was invited to assume Captaincy, I was hoping that I wouldn’t

be on to a sticky wicket.  Speaking as a ferret, I feel that I have played a

cameo of an innings and, if I have been a bit of a stodger, at least no one

could accuse me of having been a stonewaller.

Hmmm, maybe too much damning of himself with faint praise…

We- ah, the first person plural always lends a bit of authority!-have never

been a school which encourages cow shots.  We have dealt firmly with pie

chuckers. (Here he found his thoughts straying to Boothroyd-Smythe)

We have survived sledging, marilliers, dibbly dobblies, dinks and

haven’t got off our duck yet.

I may hear the death rattle and realise that I am bowled, but I- eh,

we haven’t reached the Devil’s Number yet and refuse to offer tea towel

explanations of policy to those who are little better than Zoota flippers,

or who have the Yips.  Trundlers need to be faced down and what we

need in this day and age- a cliche or two could be allowed to slip in- is

all-rounders and future generations who do not expect a featherbed.

He was beginning to enjoy himself.

We can offer our incoming Batsman a belter of a pitch.  He is, we know,

no hack and has a proven glovemanship in other series, so we wish him

a good knock.

We are happy to demote to match referee, so long as we are able to

uphold the spirit of the game.  We gladly bequeath him the snickometer

of a 2015 Ofstead Inspection.  May power hit his sweet spot every time.

Oh!  He’d better mention his predecessor.

The educational de-toxification of our previous Head Teacher has already

commenced.  Even now, he is indulging in a catharsis of his delayed mid-life

crisis and is kicking up a sandstorm with his Harley-Davidson, somewhere in

the Sahara, a trip which his wife understands has little to do with Zen.

Zen motorcycle.jpg

He is clearly in touch with the Zeitgeist as other Heads have recently

been in the news for absconding- granted on unpaid leave- to follow

their dreams, or delusions regarding national success in the World Cup.

But here we award trophies to more achievable victories gained by our

future global citizens- attaboy, Snod!-to young people of distinction. 

Now he  was sounding like that Educating Essex chap.

Oh, maybe the whole thing was too dense.  He’d better start again.

Every school is unique and St Birinus is unique in its own way.

Useless!  Complete tautology.

In the family community which is St Birinus, we try to support each other

with tolerance and humility…

He could hear inner heckling and felt as though he was a character in a

Medieval Morality play, or a pantomime dame subjected to shouts of Oh

no, we don’t!   He heard the piping voice of John Boothroyd-Smythe shouting,

It’s behind you!, presumably referring to his career.

Okay, this was enough for tonight.

Mr Poskett’s marvellous Christingle concert illustrated the benefits of PTA

involvement and co-operation with staff, and pupils from our-hah! sister

establishment, as well as funding from our beloved stakeholders.

Oh, what was the use?  He couldn’t sound enthused.  He would just

have to purloin some cribbed sycophantic drivel and motivational psycho-

babble from the internet and hope for the best.  No one would be listening,

anyway.

He had drawn stumps and so he could only hope that he’d be remembered

as the tail that briefly wagged the dog.  The best bit would be when the twelfth

man- that Milford-Haven twit brought the drinks to the pavilion.

 

 

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Hypogonadism

28 Monday Apr 2014

Posted by Candia in Arts, Education, Humour, Literature, Poetry, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Carpe Diem, cojones, Eliza Doolittle, Gobi Desert, Harley-Davidson, Humber, hypogonadism, John Humphrys, Larkin, Low T, Marvell, Mastermind, Sarah Montague’, Stephen Colbert, Today Radio 4

Hypogonadism, Snod read.

So, The Head”s not coming back, he said to himself.

‘It means he needs to have continued treatment for the condition.’

The Headmaster’s wife added that her husband had self-prescribed a

Harley-Davidson and a trip through the Gobi Desert with a friend who

had been similarly challenged.  Apparently she seemed very happy

about the outcome, as he should be away for some weeks, if not

months.

Virginia came into Gus’ office quietly and put his rolled tie on the desk

and left him his tea tray, before exiting like a shadow.

He had removed the said garment at her house the previous night, but

had not removed much else and he had left ( in the early hours it must be

admitted.)

Being of the old school, he had not stayed the night chez Virginia.

In the morning he had nearly been late for the first time in his career, as the

only tie he could find was one that Diana had given him, which bore a tiny pig

and the initials MCP.

He thought that had been a joke.  Had it?

He looked in the mirror in his private loo.  He had felt an old rush of

testosterone last night.  He knotted his favourite tie and smoothed his hair.

He looked younger; his skin looked fresher than John Humphrys’ and yet

that old dog had scored in later life.  What did the presenter have to be

grumpy about? He was raking it in from Mastermind, no doubt.  Mind you,

he had to work with Sarah Montague on the Today programme.

JohnHumphrys.jpg

So, the job advertisement would have to be published in order that interviews

could be held in May.  Would he apply?  As Eliza Doolittle nearly said:

Not By our Lady Likely! ( Snod always censored himself, even in quotations, which

amused his pupils.)  But was that adjustment blasphemy instead?  Hmm..

He sat down to drink his tea and eat his Bourbon biscuits- ‘Back to two now’,

he noticed.  Well, Lent was over and the flesh was operational again.

And how!

He typed ‘hypogonadism‘ into Google.  Yes, he had been tired recently.

Apathetic, even.  Grumpy?  Well, he had been irritable for years.  Pupils- he

would not use the term ‘students’ for boys in L5-9- such as Boothroyd-Smythe

had been grit in his oyster for decades.  No wonder he was a little impatient.

What didn’t kill you made you stronger, however.

He read a comment from a comedian called Stephen Colbert who quipped that

Low T, or a dip in manly hormone, was ‘a pharmaceutical-company-recognised

condition affecting millions of men with low testosterone, previously known as

getting older.’

Was that why he had bought the leather jacket in Turkey?  It didn’t look the

same in this cold Northern light.  Maybe he should get it out again?

Smiling to himself, he thought that he would ask Virginia to High Tea at

Bradley Manor some time.  It was a seduction technique that would

overpower most women, he suspected, never mind any age-related

inevitabilities of Low T.

And he was getting to be such an expert on women. Anthony Revelly’s genes

were still spiralling around his son’s DNA, like moths round a guttering flame.

Anyway, if Life was Too Short to Stuff a Mushroom, as he had read

somewhere, and goodness knows, he had never felt a desire to perform

such an activity, one’s mortal coil was definitely too short to allow his

vegetable love to grow vaster than empires yet more slow, or however

Marvell had cavalierly put it.  He should seize the moment- by the cojones,

if necessary.  Where had he learned that word? Carpe diem and all that.

He could even take up fly fishing. He didn’t have 30,000 years to appreciate

Virginia’s quaint honour.  (He was uncomfortable with the etymology of this

adjective, but no matter..)  No, they would make the sun run.

Complaining by the side of Humber he would leave to miserable poets, such as

Larkin, so he would serve out his time as Senior Master only.  Let others take

up the accursed mantle of Headship; he was going to take up his life-and walk,

nay gallop!

He may even apply to be on Mastermind.  Maybe it was the moisturiser he had

taken to using recently, at Diana’s insistence, but-yes!- he definitely had fewer

wrinkles than the Today presenter.  It couldn’t be attributed to post-coital

relaxation, as the activity had not yet taken place.

Title card

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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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