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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Sondheim

Mrs Lovett’s Pie Shop

13 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by Candia in History, Humour, Language, Music, Religion, Writing

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Mrs Lovett's pie shop, Sondheim, Sweeney Todd

Now The Husband is getting in on my act. I’m supposed to be

the one who notices things.

Today we were in Wintoncester Cathedral’s Refectory and I spotted

something amusing on their advertising banners.  Actually, I saw

it a couple of weeks ago, but The Husband made the most fruitful

collocation, as it reminded him of Mrs Lovett’s song in Sweeney Todd.

He is a bigger fan of Sondheim than I am.

What caused the mirth and the despair?

Some bright spark had composed the following enticement:

We grow our own herbs, with as much love as our resident monks did

years ago.

They take centre stage in our Refectory menus.

This reminded us of the lyrics:

It’s priest, have a little priest

…..Sir, it’s too good, at least

……………………………………….

Heavenly

Not as hearty as bishop, perhaps,

But then again

Not as bland as curate…

Trouble is

We only get it on Sundays

Have you any beadle?

Beadle isn’t bad till you smell it and

Notice ‘ow well it’s been greased.

Stick to priest.

Try the friar.

Fried it’s drier.

No, the clergy is really

Too coarse and too mealy.

**************************

Can I help you?

Two resident monks and chips. Salad on the

side.

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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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Who Do I Think I Am?

16 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by Candia in Humour, Literature, Music, Suttonford

≈ Leave a comment

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Amazon, dementia buddy, Hilary Boyd, Seurat, Sondheim, Sunday in the Park with George

Tiger-Lily decided to visit her grandmother, Ginevra, to interview her for a school History and Raising Self-Esteem project.  The synthesising thread that suffused the two areas was genealogical research and the children had been given the title: Who Do I Think I Am?

Tiger-Lily’s mother, Carrie, had often said to her daughter:  And who do you think you are, young lady?  However, the question had been given a different emphasis.

Magda, Ginevra’s carer, answered the door.  Shhh! she said.  Come into the kitchen and have a …hot chocolate.  She had nearly offered Tiger a gin and tonic, but remembered in time that this was inappropriate.  I’m a little worried about your grandmother.  She has been in the study all day, on the computer.  She hasn’t moved for six hours.  At first I thought she might be-you know…. Magda trailed off, not wishing to involve a teenager in too much anxiety.

What are you up to, gran? asked Tiger-Lily, pushing open the study door and spilling some of the hot chocolate in the process.  Oops!  She spooned out some of the melting mini-marshmallows and ate them, to leave a little more room in the mug.

Cover of

Cover of Sunday in the Park with George

Oh, hello, said Ginevra, not even turning round to greet her granddaughter.  I’m busy writing my e-book called Sunday in the Park with George.  It’s about an eighty year old woman who meets a man on a mobility scooter and is knocked head over heels by him.  Sometimes they feed the ducks together.  It’s..

…raunchy gran-lit, said Tiger.  But you can’t use that title, gran.

Why not? said Ginevra indignantly.

Because it’s the name of a Sondheim musical.

Oh, really?  I thought it was something to do with that spotty painter.

Yes, Seurat, said Tiger who had seen his paintings in a book in the Art block.

Well, he’s dead, so the copyright won’t apply.  Maybe I could change it to Sunday in the Park with Graham, Gordon or Gregory.  Yes, Gregory sounds okay.  Anyway, there’s a woman called Hilary Boyd who gets 20 pence every time someone downloads her e-book.  Amazon might put me on promotion.  I don’t know why I’ve waited so long to do this.  Mary Wesley was the same: she didn’t publish till she was past seventy.

Twenty pence won’t buy you too many Dewlaps, gran.  I don’t want to discourage you, but..  Privately, Tiger thought that old people doing it was disgusting and writing about doing it was even more reprehensible..  But old to Tiger was anyone over the age of twenty.

You’ll be singing a different tune when I’m on some programme with that woman Mariella Jockstrap, said Ginevra determinedly.  Anyway, what did you want?

I wanted to ask you about our roots.  It’s for my school project.

Ginevra spun round on the swivel chair.  There was nothing she liked better than to be the centre of attention.

Magda, get me the photo albums, will you?  Oh, and a Dewlap, darling.

Tiger settled in for the long haul.

When I married your grandfather it was really on the rebound, she began.

Gran wouldn’t need a dementia buddy- she had superb recall.

Wait, gran.  I’m just going to record you on my phone. Tiger could see an A* in the bag.  She just hoped there wouldn’t be too much information.

  

 

 

 

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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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