Wishbone Soup Cures Everything

Posting late today- blaming those Little Grandchildren for their persistently welcome distractions. Today we went chocolate making at the Eden Project. Back home to build a bonfire, eat homemade burgers, watch Frozen (love the summer smitten snowman) eat some more chocolate and finally ease sleep in to the seriously overtired with several Dr Seuss stories. This week's dictionary of choice is the R.W Burchfield's 1998 revised third edition of New Fowler's Modern English Usage. It gives me a phrase, but I think it counts, and it makes my late post an easy post so I accept it. Last night: The Little Grandchildren played tug of war. Grandad joined in. Little Grandson (Age 4) suggested to Little Granddaughter (Age 2) that, together, they could beat Grandad. She, being in agreement, promptly dropped the rope and punched Grandad in the chest. Quite a nice punch too, Granma noted, but mostly she was laughing.

Mr, Boy and me have been building a shed. This project started October 1st 2012, when we turned up in the car park of a supermarket that was refitting its trolley bays. Mr had a vision, permission to remove the decommissioned bays and a hired van. It was excellent and perilous fun (like giant Meccano that can fall on you and squish your bones.) We took three of the old bays, I think, with some minor flesh wounds. Last summer Project Polytunnel commenced (going well, although more space is used storing the future shed flooring than for growing.) This year, Project Shed is under way. The satisfaction layers up: that we saw potential, that we worked hard, that we took a risk, that people who thought we were bizarre may still think that but they also have visible shed envy, that here is a space we made coming to fruition. Not until the light is fading and the last of the outer paneling fixed is the daily writing routine approached. I almost can't be bothered to find a rando

Polonaise , the dictionary selector dumps on me this morning. A what? I can read the definition but what to make of it in terms of producing a post that contains any kind of illumination? Some further research is pursued. Strong coffee is brewed. Notes, gleaned from the Encyclopedia Brittanica: 'polonaise,  Polish polonez ,  dignified ceremonial dance, 17th-19th century, opened court balls. Origin- warrior’s triumphal dance? Music used 1573, coronation Henry of Anjou, King of Poland. Dancers, in couples according to social position, promenaded, gliding steps accented by bending the knees slightly on every third step. 3/4 time. Used as musical form by Beethoven, Handel, Mussorgsky, Chopin.' I am then distracted (or am I being inspired? That's a perpetual conundrum of any writer) by something not revealed in the dictionary definition: ' robe à la polonaise , woman's garment of the later 1770s and 1780s similar revival style 1870s inspired by

So far the random word selecting process has given a random list, this was not a surprise. But yesterday's nonagenarian and today's old seem at first too similar. The first definition of old in this week's dictionary is '1. Having existed or lived for a relatively long time.'  Ah, but old is a word related to a wider concept of time, I like the last one best:  '2. Having a specified age…  3. Dear or cherished through long association.' The next column in the O section is taken up with associated words: old boy, olden, Old English, old-fashioned, old hat, old man's beard, Old Master, old school tie, oldster, Old Testament, old-timer, old wives' tale, Old World. It's a lovely jumble, though it occurs to me that many of these words can be used with affection or in a derogatory way. That long association can also breed contempt, I suppose. The difficult thing about hanging around for some time is to keep (and to express)

(Iris Apfel: portrait from Pinterest) Nonagenarian is the word of today's random selection (from the Latin nonageni - ninety each.) Spoken aloud ( say nonna-j'n- air ian) it has a lively, almost flirtatious feel. Which is how one would wish to be, in one's tenth decade of living. My How To Be Old Wish List includes: I will wear mostly sequined dresses and Wellington boots I will sunbathe nude in a fragrant garden I will swim in wild water I will walk and meditate and, after some kindly thought to the matter, tell the blunt truth always. More people are living longer and staying lively, it seems; this study is fairly typical: Lively Nineties Trend : reassuring for those of us who relish the idea of being old and delightfully sparky, of concentrating eccentricities and allowing Buddha-nature full bloom. But: uh oh: there's a but! 'While the study suggests people are living better after 90, they have to make it to their 10th decade first,

Once upon a time, that time being approximately 1915, there were two little aerodromes in a big, scary world. In between them ran a teeny road, called Plough Lane, a hark back to even older times. When the aerodromes linked into one Croydon Airport, the lane was still open to public traffic: halted by a man with a red flag if a plane was due. Somewhere in the 1920s a gate was installed: times were getting less quaint, more pragmatic. Croydon was the main London Airport and a pioneer of air traffic control. It is not exactly clear (from first Google search) when Frederick Stanley Mockford (1897 - 1962) became the senior radio officer, nor exactly what event prompted nor what particular date it happened but it does seem reasonable that he was asked to think of a word that would convey an emergency situation, easily understood by all pilots and ground staff. It is likewise reasonable and feasible, since much of the early days air traffic was between Croydon and Le Bourget Airpo

This week's dictionary is my dear old friend, the Heinemann English, which I received as a study aid in the year 1981. After Skeat's 1894 this seems rather modern, but Skeat has only been on my shelf for 10 years or so: Heinemann has 33 years of shared history. I can't remember when it lost the front cover. One day I will do some binding repairs, and I will keep it organic because I might take this one to my grave. And the first word it gives me is light-hearted adjective : while outside the sun is shining, the birds in full voice, the air has a feeling in it, a vibrant buzz, like someone has tapped the side of a cosmic crystal with a spoon of heavenly metal. Light-hearted has a Word Family ; light-heartedly , adverb , light-heartedness , noun ; such a lovely concept. Sun floods the moor tops: I have an urge to wander out to Feather Tor today, floating some floral print on a fine breeze. Back from the walk I will buy an ice cream from the little van, sit in t

Painting: Marc Chagall: The Birthday Reverend Skeat, etymologist, sometimes undermines the feeling that one has for a word; 'a salute with the lips' is sweet, but 'A kiss is a gust or taste, or something choice' is not so poetic. It is not his intention to bring us poetry here, only the historic journey. Kiss being a word that happens close, that puts two figures into one personal sphere, to think of it dispassionately seems inappropriate. The journey of language is bound up with the human journey: the historic spread of this tribe and that: the individual stumble and stride. The need to communicate, for practical terms of trade, for spiritual terms of connection, is a sort of fundamentalism that allows an open mind. Etymology, a word that travels from the Greek expressions; true, account, to speak ; is a study in connection; the connective spheres between languages; words on lips exchanged, not unlike the press of a kiss. The earth as viewed fr

Jaguar (picture from Flickr.com) Jagua from the Guarani language: a term used for tygers and dogs , according to the history written by Francisco Javier Clavigero. A world in which tigers and dogs are interchangeable is interesting, yes. But first I choose to look at the instant prejudice I detect in myself regarding a history of South America written by a non-South American in the year…? The dictionary I am working from this week is an 1894 edition, the Hist. of Mexico referred to most likely current to that, but that is the translation, so the original would be earlier, but I am not smart with numbers and these thoughts do not make for remarkable sentences, so I look online. Francisco was born in Mexico, it seems, of Spanish parents, September 9, 1731. His place of birth gives better credentials than expected, and furthermore: 'Clavijero's biographer, Juan Luis Maneiro, wrote:  'From the time of his boyhood, he had occasion to deal intimately with the indi

Illustrious , my random word selection presents. A word with French and Latin roots; this proffers no surprise. But to be termed 'a badly coined word' that props up the eyebrows. What snobbery of etymology is this? It is a dispute over the origin of -lustris, which is traceable to lustrum , to wash, or from the base luc- meaning light. The later option admitted as the more likely. But a blend of both creates an alloy that cannot detract. An image of bathing in light.

This random word selection is proving to be a great deal of spontaneous fun. Amusing that the spontaneity is a lure when I rarely plan a post ever at all! It must be something fundamental to my blogging experience. And my life: that has a vague plan too. Living in a temperate climate of course one can always blame the weather. Travels down, cloud to ground: This word from the Greek, 'A round pebble,' Rolls through Northern climes Into my language from the Anglo Saxon: 'Hagal:' a word to grunt When the sky spits ice. Descriptive truth of that guttural utterance Plain as a cold weathered rock.

At first it was obvious, gentry being the word the blind finger pointed out, I should write about social inequality . Notes: I love the history of the big houses: shun the social sectioning… My politics are not politic: they are humanitarian, they are ecologically sensible... Looking at the origins of the word, is it possible to determine how clan became class… And class, nothing without cash, or the illusion of it… Whilst these thoughts trough and peak, a random searchlight throws out over the vast cybersea… Google it… everyone's answer to everything… What's this? Flotsam, jetsam, art… An artist, working with recently obsolete media: and I think of how the swift turnover in design is both progress and wasteful and how the human element is the element I am most drawn to even in this overwhelming volume of information. http://www.nickgentry.com/ 'What about a world in which, simply by living their lives, people create vast searchable recor

This week's dictionary is the fourth edition of the Concise Etymological as compiled by the Reverend Walter Skeat, 1894. The copy I own has a pasted in book plate, so I know that in March 1932 this book belonged to Mary Finney. The cover has some rodent damage and the pages bear some discoloration; overall it is finely made and the paper superbly silky. It strikes me as incongruous that the first word I jab (eyes closed, that's the game) is ' frill , a ruffle on a shirt.' I was expecting something less decorative, something strict, a fastidious , perhaps, or a firmament ? Yet this word has a history that traces back through Low Latin, frigidulosus ; from the Latin frigidus ; cold; and frigere ; to be cold; leaks through to Old French (sourced from the dictionaries of Roquefort) friller ; to shiver with cold; and settles as part of the English collection via the practice of hawking. A hawk ruffles its neck feathers for warmth: a chilly hawk was said to fri

Expostulate v (foll. by with) reason (with) esp to dissuade. This word has an old fashioned flavour. I feel it would be best used whilst sporting a monocle. It brings a nostalgia for the days when I would pack my children into my rickety car and commence on road trips visiting old country estates. We would swan the aged hallways and pretend, of course, that this was our home, and we really must chivvy the gardener as the roses have been too straggly this year. Our trip to Castle Drogo was, most memorably, on the same day that I forgot to put the shield on the hair clippers and quite balded my son. He was rather little and pale then: the effect was a post-chemo chic that caused people all day to usher us to the front of every queue. And we were too embarrassed to expostulate with them.

[ dom -miss-ile] n a place where one lives. Which brings me to Oscar Wilde, and a quote I will search out on Pinterest because there is bound to be a splendid graphic for it: something about how rare it is to live, most people are merely existing. Acerbically entertaining, Mr Wilde, and the heart of my vocation: I have a drive to bring aliveness to life! And it might as well start at home. Everyone says their home is a mess, usually to apologise. But I am the only person I know who swept a dead bat out from under the bed. I hate vacuuming so I sent my hoover to the tip to be recycled. I don't mind sweeping. I kept the dead bat in a flowerpot for ages, to amuse guests. Anyway, the point is, my house is for living in: part comfy shelter, part springboard, part interactive gallery.  As suspected, and pinched from a Pinterest search of Oscar's fabulous quotes. Thought of posting a picture of my house but hmmm...

Conclusion n decision based on reasoning; ending; final arrangement or settlement. Yesterday in error the random finger alighted on 'cake,' but the game is to select and write without any real thinking time. First reaction to the reselection is disappointment: it is far too early in the alphabet game to be concluding! But it fits a life moment, here, for I have been engrossed in making decisions and have arrived at a personal conclusion. The problem I had with this was thus: a decision made becomes a concrete thing, it represents a fixing point, a full stop. I do not like to stop, I fear stagnation above all things. I had rather keep happily failing and learning than risk success. The breakthrough I have with myself is to redefine success: so that it means a point reached that enables further progress, rather than the 'death by fat desk' that I despair of. This decision is based on reasoning, and one remembers then that every ending is a point of new beg

This can happen when your eyes are closed. You can mistake boundaries. Clearly, cake does not begin with the requisite letter. A second attempt is therefore deemed appropriate. A second attempt gives me banisters pl n railing supported by posts on a staircase. Which being an actual boundary is an amusing replacement. I was about thirteen, or thereabouts, when I tied my brother's leg to the banister rails in our little cottage with a piece of stolen washing line and he thrashed wildly enough to knock the whole banister out, and it fell on the telephone and broke that too. As luck would have it, several years later, this turned out to be merely a bad sister's dream. I sometimes dream so vividly I have no idea that I'm dreaming: this can be horribly confusing. It's easier to separate out reality when the visions are fantastical. Mundane detail needs checking. There were no banisters in that little cottage, and the telephone was safe on a windowsill in the fron

This week I am using the Collins English Dictionary, First Edition 2006, for my random word selection. It is a straightforward text: main entry words in bold type, variant spellings and pronunciation given phonetically only for words deemed difficult. Parts of speech abbreviated, in italics. Section A is sectioned out: eyes closed, pages flicked: the finger jabs. The first word is not especially encouraging. Abysmal adj Informal extremely bad, awful. ( Abundant is only a column away, one notes, perhaps therein the lesson?) It is the morning, and the sun is clearing through mist. Drink tepid coffee; perform classic finger tap, ponder at the scene from the windows here. At the bottom of the abyss, Joseph Campbell asserts, there lies salvation. But abyss is a noun. Abysmal suggests that which belongs to the abyss, to the dark and distressing press. Which makes one think of media reporting and how once it had seemed serious and related to real lives and these days it is h