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Tag Archives: Land of Nod

New Year Resolutions

02 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by Candia in Arts, Education, Humour, Music, News, Psychology, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Writing

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doolally, incontinence pad, lacrosse, Land of Nod, Mons Meg, napery, National Trust, novella, Pet Shop Boys, psycho-geriatrician, Raj, redcurrant sauce, snifterino, Sondheim, Tea Tree Oil

When Sonia woke up at lunchtime, the day after she had indulged herself

with a surfeit of snifterinos at Ginevra’s son’s cottage, she resolved never to

let a drop of that dreadful Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother pass

her lips again.

Ginevra, totally accustomed to downing the firewater, was more inclined

to chastise herself for not sticking to her writing schedule of 1,000 words a

day, on her work- in-progress, the e-book entitled ****in the Park with***.

This was not a x-rated title: it was just that it had been pointed out to her

that ‘Sunday’ had already been taken by Sondheim for a musical and ‘George’

had been used in the eponymous title.  So, Ginevra hadn’t quite decided on

the day of the week that her novella would focus on for its unity of action.

She was also toying with the forenames ‘Gregory’ and ‘Gordon’ for her

romantic hero.  Suddenly, on Hogmanay morning, she stopped swithering

and was resolute that it should be Saturday in the Park with Gregory.

(See 26th Nov 2012: Who Do I Think I Am? for link)

Meanwhile, in Bradford-on-Avon, on New Year’s Eve, Diana Fotheringay,

retired lax (lacrosse to the uninitiated) mistress from St Vitus’ School for

the Academically-Gifted Girl, was adamant that she would never again bring

out her family’s antique linen napery, to dress the festive groaning board,

as long as the head of the table was to be graced by the messy Augustus

Snodbury, who had spilled indelible redcurrant sauce on the pristine, nay

virginal, tablecloth.

Ribes rubrum2005-07-17.JPG

And, talking of intactae, Drusilla had determined that she was going to

visit Wyvern Mote, just as soon as The National Trust opened their

aestival portals, in a bid to resolve the mystery of her father’s

parentage.

She had discreetly opened the subject with her mother as they were

washing up – Gus had made himself scarce at this point, as many men do.

However, she had drawn a genealogical blank.

Frankly, Diana was looking forward to retrieving her own space.  She had been

terrified that she was going to catch Snod’s end-of-term cold- the one he

always succumbed to when the adrenalin level subsided.  He had kept making

the excuse that his sonorous sternutation was provoked by the resinous fir

she had decked in the corner of her tiny sitting room.  She remained

unconvinced and liberally sprayed the room with Tea Tree oil.

Gus resolved to return to school early, in order to adopt The Headmaster’s

mantle and Diana secretly was glad that her choice television programmes

would not, therefore, be disturbed by the school secretary’s frequent relaying

of 24 hour reports, in the manner of an insomniac news anchor.

Everything seemed to revolve around some troublesome boy called

Boothroyd- Smythe,  Drusilla recognised the name as she had his sister in

her boarding house.  She resolved to pay attention to how the seasoned

educator, ie/ her father, dealt with such delinquents.

She overheard him say: Don’t worry!  I’ll fix the little blighter good and proper

when I get back.  He may give his parents the run around, but he’ll have ME

to contend with in the Spring Term.

Drusilla made a point of trying to remain unsceptical as to any projected

behavioural success.  She must endeavour to be less smug in the New

Year.

And she must also be more tolerant of old people such as Great-Aunt

Augusta.  In fact, she should give the old bird a call, so long as the

residents of Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry hadn’t been

packed off to The Land of Nod by 8pm, for the convenience of staff who

wanted to follow the pyrotechnic displays from Dubai, London and Edinburgh

on the telly, without the inconvenience of having to change an incontinence

pad at the very moment when the fuse was ignited on Mons Meg and the

sparks began to fly to a discordant backdrop provided by The Pet Shop Boys

and a massed pipe band.

Drusilla supposed that the old biddies- she must stop referring to them as

such- would probably not know what day of the week it was, let alone

what moment of portent they were missing.  She reflected on the questions

that psycho- geriatricians ask aged people to determine their marbles’ level:

Who is the Prime Minister?  What date is it?

Actually, she herself often had difficulty in remembering what day it was in

the school holidays.  That was worrying!  What year was it again?

When she had been with Aunt Augusta in the Recreation Room, some

official had approached the old lady and asked:  Who is your visitor,

Aggie?

Augusta had waved the troublesome inquisitor away with an imperious

hand, such as the wife of some Indian Governor might have dismissed a

fawning minion in the days of the Raj, with a flick of a tasselled fly

swatter.

The name-badged auxiliary had persisted, nodding towards Dru, but

continuing to address the increasingly agitated one:  Do you know who

she is?

Augusta scowled:  Do you know who she is?

Of course, the young woman replied, somewhat puzzled.

Well, in that case, Dru’s Great-Aunt was triumphant, you don’t need

to ask me!

She returned her attention to her great-niece:  Ignore her, Doolally, or

whatever it is they call you.  Now what was I saying?

Drusilla resolved there and then, never to grow old.

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Insomnia

28 Thursday Nov 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Literature, mythology, Poetry, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

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.

12 Cinderella Coach Wedding carriage  Plastic clear

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.

.

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Thought For The Day

14 Monday Oct 2013

Posted by Candia in Arts, Celebrities, Education, History, Humour, Literature, Social Comment, Sport, Suttonford, television, Writing

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aigret, Bad Hair Day, Barbara Cartland, davenport, dawn chorus, evil eye, fallaid, Farming Today, hammer drill, Harper Beckham, insomnia, John Humphrys, Land of Nod, lemming, Lionel Blair, Lionel Blue, Mary Wollstonecraft, Monty Panesar, Monty Python, murrain, National Anthem, Prayer for the Day, Rip Van Winkle, Sailing By, sauna, Shipping Forecast, struan, terminal moraine, Thought for the Day, World Service

Left-looking half-length portrait of a possibly pregnant woman in a white dress

(Mary Wollstonecraft: Wikipaedia.)

Carrie wandered into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe just as I

was ordering.

What’s that you are having?  she asked.

Struan nouveau, I replied.  Do you want to share?

It rings a bell.  What’s in it?

Cranberries, bilberries and caraway seeds.  It’s traditional-from

Scotland, you know.

Oh, it’s that thing the eldest daughter used to have to bake in the

Hebrides.

I’ll have a piece myself. Hi! I’ll have what she’s having.

(The latter was addressed to the baristress, who tried not to

laugh.)

What about fallaid? Do they serve that?  Carrie followed the counter with

her eyes.

No.  That was the meal leftovers which were put into a footless stocking

and flicked over the flocks to ward off the murrain.

Murrain.. Such a pretty name.

No, Carrie.  Don’t get broody now that you have got them all off to school.

Anyway, murrain was a kind of plague.  It was an animal disease.  In fact,

etymologically, it meant death, literally.

Like terminal moraine?  We did that in geography many moons ago.

Yes, well, fallaid also helped to protect you from the evil eye.

It would come in handy when you have to run the gauntlet of collecting your

kids from the school yard, Carrie remarked.  Actually it sounds like some kind

of subjunctive of the French verb falloir.  You remember: il faut etcetera?

Actually, I can’t think very clearly at all just now, I sighed.

What’s wrong?

Well, I am not sleeping.  Once I waken at about four, that’s it.

Do you get up?

I used to listen to The World Service and half doze off, but now they have this

really annoying clattery jingle thing before the news items.  It is so

raucous and repetitive.  It gets into your brain like a hammer drill.  I don’t

get back to sleep sometimes until Farming Today.

They should realise that nocturnal listeners are just wanting to have a gentle

white noise to lull them back into the Land of Nod, agreed Carrie.  Do you get

off to sleep all right when you retire?

Oh, The Shipping Forecast is brilliant for that.  I don’t like Sailing By and

 The National Anthem is a bit military, but you kind of respect that and it gives

you a Pavlovian emotional closure, I dare say.

You should write in and complain about the awful racket.

Well, I like Thought for the Day and Prayer for the Day and somehow, when

you wake up to John Humphrys, you feel soothed, even as you fall off a fiscal

cliff along with all the other lemmings.

I bet his wife doesn’t feel like that, retorted Carrie.

What? Like a lemming? She doesn’t have to see him first thing in the

morning, so it probably saves their marriage.  He looks like the antithesis of

Rip Van Winkle- ie/ as if he hasn’t slept for seventy odd years.

Thought for the Day represents people from all the different religions,

doesn’t it? Carrie said.

Oh yes.  (I am beginning to sound like that Churchill dog)  They had Lionel

Blue, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs too, I confirmed.

Hmm, I used to like Sikhs until that Monty Python guy, the cricketer,

urinated inappropriately.  I think he was a bad role model, though I think

those turbans would be brilliant for a Bad Hair Day.

Monty Panesar.jpg

Panesar. Don’t overgeneralise, I cautioned her.  We have had Black Swan

conversations before.  Anyway, I agree that the turbans might have their

uses.

Yes, agreed Carrie.  They’re very now.  Celebrities put them on their babies.

I bet Harper Beckham has quite a few to choose from.

I don’t think they’d suit me, I reflected.  Too Alexander Pope-cum-Mary

Wollstonecraft.

But you remind me of her, Carrie said.  Actually, turbans were very

Barbara Cartland too.

Dame Barbara Cartland Allan Warren.jpg

Well, I am not about to attend an Assembly Room any time soon,

complete with nodding aigret feather, swaying to the beat of a

chamber orchestra.

You, or the feather?

Oh, shut up!

So, what have you got against turbans?  I thought you could wear one and

cultivate that dreamy, faraway look, sitting poised with a quill in your hand,

composing a proto-feminist treatise at your davenport.

Well, it’s not my headgear of choice, ever since I came across an old dear in a

Leeds sauna, saving on her central heating and sweating it out, stark naked

except for her turban.  She actually accused me of sitting on her heart pills.

It was probably a shower cap, anyway.

And were you?  You know, sitting on them? Carrie enquired, a tad

aggressively, I thought.

No!  I’d have felt them under my folded towel, surely?

Depends.  If you were a princess, or not.  Also if you were less pneumatic

than you are now.

How very dare you! I swatted her with a Suttonford Weekly.

Anyway, Carrie laughed, surely the World Service is preferable to your

husband’s snoring.

Just give me the dawn chorus, I agreed.

But not too many aigrets, Carrie quipped.

Precisely.  I haven’t heard Rabbi Lionel Blair for a while, come to think of it.

Blue, corrected Carrie.

I can’t think straight.  It’s my insomnia, I yawned.

Lionel blair 2010.jpg

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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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