The One That Got Away

Tags

angling, fishing, Izaak Walton

Very Izaak Walton

Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart.

She Being Dead Yet Speaketh

Tags

Alcuin, Alexander Pope, Anthony Gormley, campanology, Cassandra Austen, cathedral Close, Chawton, global warning, Great expectations, Harris Bigg- Wither, Henry Tilney, Izaak Walton, Jane Austen, St Swithun, Winchester Cathedral

An old series which may re-pay another airing:

 As the most famous Hampshire novelist remarked: We can all go through the somewhat embarrassing motions of offering each other the Peace for a few moments at Sunday Eucharist, but it is keeping it throughout the week that is the true challenge.

 Whenever I am in Winchester Cathedral, I am conscious that the Blessed Jane lies beneath our feet.  I mean, of course, Jane Austen and it is significant that she was not praised for her literary talents on her ledger stone, but rather lauded for her virtue.

 

 

 

Occasionally I fantasise that she is eavesdropping on snippets and gobbets of conversation that are echoes of those which formed the foundation to her writing at Chawton, where, in a more constrained square meterage, she still found plenty of grist to her mill.

The types still exist with their universal foibles and characteristics and you could deem her to have an excellent position from which to amass fragments for her personal notebook.  Her neighbours are interesting too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Jane’s internment took place early in the morning, perhaps to avoid comment from the faithful on the rectitude of a resting place having been given to one whose relation had been imprisoned for petty theft and whose cousin’s husband had been guillotined.

I wonder what our novelist would have made of discussions on women bishops and gay marriage?

Would she still count eighty seven women passing by, without there being a tolerable physiognomy among them?

(Some people are worth seeing, but not worth going to see.)

However, as stated, she does not have to move at all. To be the unseen guest at baptisms, ordinations, weddings and confirmations must delight her.  Even those alliances which are the triumphs of hope over experience must provide entertainment enough for any spinster.  The voice of the people is the voice of God, said Alcuin – vox populi vox dei.

Being witness to so many unions, does she ever regret turning down Harris Bigg- Wither?  Nay, she was delighted to have spared herself any lifelong conjunction with that particular large and awkward youth.  Whenever she had experienced a broken engagement, failed seaside romance or unsatisfactory flirtation, she consoled herself in her sister’s company and they shared a game of rubbers, or played a few duets.  Next to being married, a girl liked to be disappointed in love a little, now and then.  It gave one a sort of distinction among friends and one’s mother an opportunity to remedy the situation.

When a baby grizzles during the Intercessions, does it irritate her?  No, not at all, for Jane was the seventh child of eight and loved boisterous games of baseball and cricket.  She does not mind the troops of schoolchildren, brandishing clipboards with attached worksheets on Global Warning and St Swithun, who mark their territory by expelling curious deposits of masticated material on the ancient stones.

She is amused when itinerant latter-day pilgrims are riveted to the spot. Teacher:  Well done, Merlot!  Now that you have ticked all the boxes we can enter you for the Win a Cathedral Roof Tour on a Windy Day prize draw.

Rinaldo, why don’t you go down to the crypt and see if you can spot the virtualangel? Don’t hurry back.  Have a little paddle. That was quick!  No, that wasn’t the angel.  It was the sculpture by Anthony Gormless.

No, children do not bother her, but she is disturbed and aggrieved by members of the congregation who show no discretion in the timing of their personal coughs and who would be ideal members of the cast of some stage representation of Great Expectorations. Perhaps they could be induced to retire to the Fisherman’s Chapel to meditate on the Izaak Walton stained glass injunction contained therein, whose vitrine injunction is:  Study to be Quiet.

A restoration appeal for £19 million was launched and so Jane hopes that the ancient roof will no longer threaten to tumble around her ears from the vibrations of deaf loops, microphones, county brayings and excessive campanology.

Her single regret may be that she misses her dear sister’s company. As Mrs Austen once said to her: If Cassie were to have her head cut off, you would insist on joining her. And Jane’s father often quoted Pope: The proper study of mankind is Man.

So, here she is dignified with as much learning in the University of Life as her brothers experienced in their various careers.  Persuasion, pride, prejudice, sense and sensibility are paraded over these flagstones every day, in as compressed a social milieu as any novelist could desire to inhabit.

Henry Tilney once observed: The Close is surrounded by a neighbourhoodof voluntary spies.

Certainly, Jane would have avowed that its grapevine is as efficient a system of instant gratification as the pew sheet or Internet, whatever that organ of gossip may be.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012

 

Fishing For Compliments

Tags

chat-up line, fishing flies, Izaak Walton

Inspired by the phrase : ‘A Chat- Up Line’

With apologies to Izaak Walton…

 

Some Booby Nymphs met two Woolly Buggers,

who threw out some Gold Nugget lures to them,

thinking they were Pale Evening Emergers,

ready for the Down ‘n Dirty Fiery.

Hey, Damsel Wiggle Nymphs! Rise to our bait!

Black Suspender Nymphs-you with the Pearl Butts!

 

But the Kick Ass damsels merely replied:

You think you are Irresistible Adams;

we are not interested in tackle.

We are not attracted by Double Humpy.

We don’t want to get into Deep Water

and especially not with Green-Arsed Wickhams.

Rat-faced McDougal there could lose Half Stone.

He wouldn’t know a Sofa Pillow from

his Tup’s Indispensible and talks Tosh.

I’d clearly prefer a Green Highlander

to a Flash Charlie with a Zonker.

You haven’t got a Grey Ghost of a Chance.

My boyfriend ain’t no Leckford Professor

but you are a Moose Turd compared to him.

I’m a Redhead Buzzer and my pal here

will confirm that I am called Red Diva,

so there’s no use in saying, Baby Doll,

do you fancy a Whisky then in Bradford?

You are out of your depth- we’re World Class Flies.

 

But the Spin Doctor, full of Blue Charm, said:

No, I’d have to be on Chartreuse Poppers

to take on a Little Devil like you.

My mate here is a Black Bullet Conehead,

so you’d better shut your Grizzly Hot Lips.

You might be a Beaded Belly temptress,

but, up close, I see you are wearing Spandex.

I will get my Missionary elsewhere

and doubtless before Moonlight Shadows fall.

 

Good luck, Dirty Egg-Sucking Dogs!

Cast off!  We don’t need no Psycho Princes!

 

 

 

 

Diana’s Diary 2

Tags

Burns' Night, chicklit, e-book, Elvis, Flower of Scotland tartan, ghillie brogues, Heath and Safety Officer, Heavyweight kilt, Izaak Walton, Juniper, Pele Tower, Phytophora, Presleys of Aberdeenshire, Prince Charlie jacket, PTA, skean dhu, trout fishing

I mustn’t look back now that I have re-located to Suttonford.  I can

hardly believe that it is almost Burns’ Night.  Wonder what my ex,

Murgatroyd, is doing?  Probably having a ceilidh in his converted Pele

Tower in the Borders.  No, don’t go there..

Called in to meet another of Sonia’s friends last night.  She was quite

an eccentric old lady in her nineties and, although it was very early in

the evening, she insisted on pouring us very large measures of

something hideously like fire-water, which she referred to as Dewlap’s

Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.  There was very little tonic in it.

There followed a monologue about the decline in juniper plants in the

South of England.  Apparently rabbits are eating them and No. 3

London Gin is subsidising the protection of the few remaining bushes in

Sussex.  They seem to be succumbing to a disease called Phytophora

austro-something or other- the plants, not the rabbits.  The old dear

was quite distraught at the thought of her little tipple being affected.

Not so little, actually!

We were talking about the PTA Burns’ Supper and Ginevra, for that

was the old biddy’s name, was surprisingly informative about where

Gus could hire a kilt and all the gear.  She used to live in Scotland too,

nearly a century ago.

Apparently there is a place in Southampton that sends the whole outfit

out, if you book it on-line.

The Health and Safety Officer at school has vetoed the skean dhus,

though.  Says they could be construed as dangerous and menacing

weapons.

I e-mailed Gus later from Ginevra’s, to pass on the information and to

say that I would come along as his guest.  Ginevra is quite au fait with

the internet and so on and even showed me her latest e-book!  It

seemed fairly racy.

She called it Broilerlit and, when I queried the term, she explained that after

chicklit came henlit, and finally, broilerlit, written by authors of the Third Age.

Much later, when we finally dragged ourselves away, so that Magda, the old

lady’s carer could put her to bed, Gus actually phoned me on my mobile.

He told me that there is to be a band and caller and the School Secretary has

organised an auction, with prizes, such as a day’s trout fishing with tuition

which will tickle the gills of any budding Izaak Walton.

She- The School Secretary-I don’t recall her name-had already ordered

ghillie brogues, a Prince Charlie jacket and Heavyweight kilt in the Presley

tartan for him, seeing as Gus has no clan connections.  So, she must be

quite efficient, after all.

However, he didn’t fancy the Elvis theme, in spite of the Presleys being

genuinely originally from Aberdeenshire.  So she swapped the cloth to

Flower of Scotland, which certainly sounds more traditional, though it may

be universally worn, with no affiliation required.

Sonia is going to lend me her long, bottle green satin dress and a tartan

stole, if the moths haven’t got into it.

I’m a little worried about Gus’ legs and I can’t bear to speculate as to

whether he will, or won’t be wearing anything underneath.

Let’s just hope that it is not a windy night, in any sense of the adjective.

I’m glad he opted for the Heavyweight!

Cheerio for now, as they say!

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

Tags

Bianca Bosker, Bianca Jagger, copycat culture, duplitecture, Eiffel tower replica, Hallstatt, Hamlet, Izaak Walton, J S Mill, London Bridge, Long Beach, pushpin, Queen Mary, Terracotta Army, Thames Town, Tony Mackay, white peony tea, Zaha Hadid

Brassica and I were catching up and I said that I’d have a cup of White

Peony and Rose tea for a change.  It can be irritating when someone else

jumps on your raft of choices.  Yes, Brassie thought that she’d like the same,

please. This drew us into a conversation about copycat culture and whether

it was a compliment or an irritation, not to say, theft, to adopt someone else’s

mores.

Apparently, in China there are replica Cotswold villages, a Thames town

with half-timbered houses, cobbles and olde worlde pubs.  In other regions

there are counterfeit Eiffel towers and Tower Bridges.

Hah! I scoffed.  They even have a Stonehenge and a Hallstatt. Mind you,

the Americans have our Queen Mary at Long Beach and didn’t someone

transport the original London Bridge to Arizona and rebuild it over the

Colorado River in 1971?

Oh yeah, Brassica said.  I don’t think she’d heard of Hallstatt, so she

by-passed that topic.  I read about an architect called Tony Mackay who

criticises the pastiche effect, where the wrong building materials are used and

they get proportions wrong, creating a film set rather than authentic

buildings.

There’s a book called Original Copies, or something like that, I added, having

read the BBC News reports online the day before.  I think the author is Bianca..

Jagger? interrupted Brassie-Know-It-All.

No, I gave her a withering look.  Bosker.  She postulates- I deliberately used a

long word here to deter any further interruptions- that the Chinese regard

imitation as the sincerest form of flattery.  It is their original concept of

takeaway.

Well, who’s to say which is superior: pushpin or poetry?  Brassie was showing

off her ancient residual knowledge of JS Mill from her degree, many Chinese

lanterns ago.  It was hardly likely to ignite a conversational conflagration and

anyway, nobody ever knows what pushpin is and it’s a bore having to explain,

like trying to clarify why a joke is funny, or not.

But they do like innovation too, don’t they?

Brassie was determined to score one over me. ( Advantage.)

Zaha Hadid is a British architect, isn’t she?  Brassie looked triumphant and

somewhat flushed.  It wasn’t the tea. 

British-Iraqi, I countered.  Advantage Dixon-Stuart.

Isn’t she designing some ultra- modern project in Beijing which is meant to

look like three fish-like forms emerging from a stream?

Hey! I squealed.  I’ve just had an idea!  Why don’t we get the Town Council to

invite some Chinese VIPs over here to see if they’d like to buy Suttonford,

lock, stock and barrel.  We have half-timbered cottages and period houses and

original characters.  Or, they might build us in duplitecture.  I’m sure they’d

love Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe and A La Mode.

You mean Suttonford with a Chinese skin?  Brassie’s eyes were wide.

Actually, then we could ask Zahid to design some fish buildings for us.  After

all, we have the trout and the chalk streams, so they would fit in well with

our environment.  We could offset the cost by selling off the Suttonford

Kebab van, complete with its fairy lights and noisy generator…We could pull

in more tourists with an Izaak Walton custom-built museum to fishing flies

and all things piscatorial.

And we could have a Terracotta Army on the roundabout, gushed Brassie.

No, that would be naff, I cautioned her.  After all, I am the arbiter of taste

around here.

So should we attend the next Council Open Meeting?  Brassie asked

circumspectly.

Possibly.  But don’t say anything to anyone meanwhile.  We don’t want anyone

copying our ideas.  Hmm… I don’t know what to cook tonight.  Oh, I

know-we’ll just have a Chinese, though it’s nothing like the real thing.

Oh, we can do that too, said Brassie.  Cosmo and the boys like one once

in a while.

Why, oh why does she not get her own ideas!  If I change it to an Indian,

she’ll follow my choice.  I suppose it is a compliment, but if I said nay, it’s

very like a cloud then she’d agree and then if I changed it to but very like a

camel, she’d be right behind me.  Irritating!  I’m with Hamlet on this one:

get your own ideas and stop jumping on my band waggon, whether you are

Chinese, Danish, or home-grown.

 

Eavesdropping with Austen

Tags

Anthony Gormley, Chawton, Izaak Walton, Jane, Jane Austen, Swithun, Winchester Cathedral

Schools in the north have had to be closed owing to flooding.  The temperature has dropped.  On Sunday morning the hands of the congregation felt cold when the Peace was shared.  As our own Hampshire novelist remarked, we can all go through the somewhat embarrassing motions of giving each other the Peace for a few moments at Sunday Eucharist, but it is keeping it throughout the week that is the true challenge.

Whenever I am in Winchester Cathedral, I am conscious that the Blessed Jane lies beneath our feet.  I mean, of course, Jane Austen and it is significant that she was not praised for her literary talents on her ledger stone, but rather lauded for her virtue.

Occasionally I fantasise that she is eavesdropping on snippets and gobbets of conversation that are echoes of those which formed the foundation to her writing at Chawton, where, in a more constrained square meterage, she still found plenty of grist to her mill.

The types still exist with their universal foibles and characteristics and you could deem her to have an excellent position from which to amass fragments for her personal notebook.  Her neighbours are interesting too.

Jane’s internment took place early in the morning, perhaps to avoid comment from the faithful on the rectitude of a resting place having been given to one whose relation had been imprisoned for petty theft and whose cousin’s husband had been guillotined.

I wonder what our novelist would have made of discussions on women bishops and gay marriage.  Would she still count eighty seven women passing by, without there being a tolerable physiognomy among them?  (Some people are worth seeing, but not worth going to see.)  However, as stated, she does not have to move at all.

To be the unseen guest at baptisms, ordinations, weddings and confirmations must delight her.  Even those alliances which are the triumphs of hope over experience must provide entertainment enough for any spinster.  The voice of the people is the voice of God, said Alcuin – vox populi vox dei.

Being witness to so many unions, does she ever regret turning down Harris Bigg-Wither?  Nay, she was delighted to have spared herself any lifelong conjunction with that particular large and awkward youth.  Whenever she had experienced a broken engagement, failed seaside romance or unsatisfactory flirtation, she consoled herself in her sister’s company and they shared a game of rubbers, or played a few duets.  Next to being married, a girl liked to be disappointed in love a little, now and then.  It gave one a sort of distinction among friends and one’s mother an opportunity to remedy the situation.

When a baby grizzles during the Intercessions, does it irritate her?  No, not at all, for Jane was the seventh child of eight and loved boisterous games of baseball and cricket.  She does not mind the troops of schoolchildren, brandishing clipboards with attached worksheets on Global Warning and St Swithun, who mark their territory by expelling curious deposits of masticated material on the ancient stones.  She is amused when itinerant latter-day pilgrims are riveted to the spot.

Teacher:  Well done, Merlot!  Now that you have ticked all the boxes we can enter you for the Win a Cathedral Roof Tour on a Windy Day prize draw.

Rinaldo, why don’t you go down to the crypt and see if you can spot the virtual angel?  Don’t hurry back.

That was quick!  No, that wasn’t the angel.  It was the sculpture by Anthony Gormless.

No, children do not bother her, but she is disturbed and aggrieved by members of the congregation who show no discretion in the timing of their personal coughs and who would be ideal members of the cast of some stage representation of Great Expectorations. Perhaps they could be induced to retire to the Fisherman’s Chapel to meditate on the Izaak Walton stained glass injunction contained therein, whose injunction is:  Study to be Quiet.

Now a restoration appeal for £19 million has been launched and so Jane hopes that the ancient roof will no longer threaten to tumble around her ears from the vibrations of deaf loops, microphones, county brayings and excessive campanology.

Her single regret may be that she misses her dear sister’s company. As Mrs Austen once said:

If Cassie were to have her head cut off, you would insist on joining her.

Yes, Jane’s father often quoted Pope:

The proper study of mankind is Man.

So, here she is dignified with as much learning in the University of Life as her brothers experienced in their various careers.  Persuasion, pride, prejudice, sense and sensibility are paraded over these flagstones every day, in as compressed a social milieu as any novelist could desire to inhabit.  Henry Tilney once observed:

The Close is surrounded by a neighbourhood of voluntary spies.

Certainly, its grapevine is as efficient a system of instant gratification as the pew sheet or Internet, whatever that organ of gossip may be.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012