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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: redcurrant sauce

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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Acting Head

26 Thursday Dec 2013

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

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A&E, Acting Head, Bradford on Avon, cook one's goose, Ding dong Merrily on High!, fardels bear, Madeira, redcurrant sauce, St John's Ambulance, University Challenge, wishbone

Augustus Snodbury settled himself into position in the carver chair at

the head of the table.  He had only just made it to Bradford-on-Avon,

his prostate appointment having been cancelled and the queue in the

butcher’s having receded.  He had battled through floods and gales to

bring-not the bacon, but the poultry- to his erstwhile lover’s cottage.

I’ve cooked your goose! Diana announced.

In more ways than one, he mused.  However, he sharpened the knife

and set to, the stupid paper hat falling over his eyes.

Dru held out her plate and it was plenished with succulent breast.

She adjusted her cleavage and leaned back.

That’s plenty! she cautioned.

Diana gave the toast:

Here’s tae us.

Wha’s like us?

Gey few

an’ they’re a’ deid!

Gus and his daughter pulled the wishbone and he won, but

coyly declined to reveal his deepest desire.  Diana observed

privately that it might connote with him having a backbone too.

Wasn’t that the weirdest thing?  Dru announced. At the looks of

incomprehension, she clarified:  I mean seeing that Poskett chap in

the middle of our trip.

Well, I suppose these cultural breaks self-select, her mother

hypothesised.  It’s a niche market.

I wonder how the other poor chap is? continued Dru casually.

Can’t have been much fun being hors-de-combat in the hotel.

Oh, Milford-Haven will be perfectly all right by now, opined Gus.

He’s probably gone off to be looked after by his mother in Cornwall.

Duchy of.

Dru inhaled and some sage and onion stuffing went down the wrong

way. She downed some water as a distraction, in the manner of a shy

University Challenge contestant after he or she has finally answered one

question correctly.

Cornwall, she voiced inwardly.  She fingered the gold harp on its chain.

So, it had been from Nigel after all.  Ding Dong Merrily on High!

The phone interrupted their table talk, ringing insistently.

Typical!  said Diana.  Ignore it!  Let the machine take it.

However, they could hear the rather desperate message, pronounced

by someone who sounded very like the school secretary to Snod, who

happened to be nearest to the handset.

He leapt up, spilling the redcurrant sauce over the antique linen

tablecloth.

Oh do be careful! scowled Diana.

Gus pressed re-play and, to his horror, the tale of tragic woe played itself

out.

Apparently the Headmaster had attended the Midnight Service at his local

parish church and he had keeled over before the seventh Lesson.

At first everyone, including his wife, had thought that he had merely been

prematurely carried away by the spirits of the season, but a member of the

St John’s Ambulance Brigade had detected a tell-tale sign of lopsidedness in

his expression and, before the congregation could snatch a subterfuge

and unmusical breath between ‘verily the sky‘ and ‘is riv’n‘, the Head had

been stretchered out between the pews and was on his way to A&E.

Ashen-faced Augustus sat down on the whoopee cushion.

What’s going to happen?  Dru asked.

Yes, re-formulated Diana.  What’s to be done?

I’m to be Acting Head, replied Gus.  That’s what’s happening

and I wish it wasn’t.  Oh, joy to the world!

Be careful what you wish for! Diana teased, but she wiped her lips with

her napkin when she saw his expression.

Balancing himself by gripping the edge of the table he recited with an

orotundity that matched the profundity of the occasion:

To die, to sleep-

…and by a sleep to say we end

The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks

That flesh is heir to…’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

And thus the Native hue of Resolution

iIs sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of Action..

Dru found herself appalauding, but he continued:

No, who would fardels bear

[I’d rather}..bear those ills

Than fly to others that [I] know not of..

Here!  Diana thrust a glass into his hand.

Have some Madeira, m’dear!

And so the spell was broken, along with his dreams of a

downhill, easy progression towards his retirement.

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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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