It has, as you might have noticed if you’re reading this in dear old Blighty, been blinking cold lately. Perishing, in fact. This time last year, this was my island in the sun, this year it’s an Arctic wilderness. Spring has sprung, but, as you might say, the bearings have gone. Now, the thing is I, like many other people, have a repertoire of phrases to express the fact it’s cold.
It can be – as above - “perishing” or “parky”. I also use the occasional homely metaphor, such as “brass monkeys” (as in “it’s brass monkeys out there”) or “It’s as cold as a landlady’s heart”.
This is where my daughter Jennifer finds fault.
“Honestly, Mum,” she said. “What do you mean?”
“They’re well-known phrases,” I said, defensively.
“No, they’re not,” said the rest of the family, rounding on me. “For instance,” said Lucy, “what does “brass monkeys” mean?”
I explained.
It’s a little bit rude and made her say, “Well! Really...”
I felt crushed.
“You’re always coming out with stuff like that,” said Elspeth. “Weird sayings that no one else has ever heard of.”
“There’s a flea in your ear,” put in Jennifer, helpfully. “That’s one.”
The rest of the family demurred. That is a well known phrase.
“No it’s not,” argued Jenny. “You just make them up. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire, for instance, when we’re going to bed. Ne’re cast a clout till May be out. Something’s like a violin with one string. In and out like a fiddler’s elbow.”
“Up and down like a bride’s nighty,” I murmured, lowering the tone somewhat.
“And that one you say that you shouldn’t.”
“As queer as Dick’s hatband?”
“Mother!”
“But I just mean something’s odd, that’s all.”
“You still shouldn’t say it. Seriously, you just make them up. I can do it. For instance, I could say something like, when there’s crows in the tree, we’ll always have potatoes.
I thought that phrase was so inspired, it went straight into the repertoire. So now you know.
When there’s crows in the tree, we’ll always have potatoes...
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Taking the Biscuit!
One of my oldest friends (in every sense of the word as she’s just celebrated her 89th birthday) is Kath. We were talking about what kids did in the days before TV.
Well, according to Kath, one of the odder things that kids got up to was to go and look at corpses.
Nowadays, when someone dies, it’s almost de rigueur that the undertaker scoops them up and takes them to a Chapel of Rest, but that wasn’t always the case.
I can remember Grandma laid out in her coffin in the front room (lid off) and the neighbours coming to pay their respects, but although I might very well have seen other people’s deceased relatives, I can’t honestly say I remember it.
Kath, however, led by her pal Aileen, made an absolute hobby of it.
Now, before you think this is too morbid for words, I should explain that although Kath and Aileen were perfectly well fed, this was about 1933 and treats such as sweets and biscuits were rare. So Kath was a willing listener when Aileen came up with A Plan.
“Have you noticed,” said Aileen, “that when there’s a corpse laid out in the house, everyone who comes to see it gets a biscuit or a piece of cake? Why don’t we,” continued Aileen, getting down to brass tacks, “go and look at corpses and then we’ll get a biscuit too?”
It was dead easy (if you’ll excuse the expression) to spot the house with a corpse in it because the curtains were drawn at the front of the house.
So those two little girls went round knocking at doors to offer to “say a prayer,” (Kath’s exact words) “over the corpse”, upon which they were ushered into the parlour and, having admired how beatifully laid-out the corpse was, they’d get cracking.
Usually one Hail Mary would do the trick, but sometimes they had to throw in an Our Father as well before the biscuits were produced, while the householder looked on, sometimes moved to tears by this display of infant piety. There was one occasion, however, where Aileen decided to cut and run when, after a whole decade of the Rosary (!) no biscuits were forthcoming. “All that praying,” said Aileen in disgust when they were out on the street again, “for nothing!”
It came to an end, however, as all good things do, when the Headmistress of the school, a ferocious nun of the old-fashioned type, wise to any form of rannygazoo, called them into her office. “I hear,” she said, “that you’ve got a new hobby.”
Kath and Aileen looked at each other for moral support and Kath demurely said, “We’re only saying prayers.”
Even the most clued-up nun couldn’t actually object to that, but she wasn’t fooled. “In future, I think you should restrict your payers to church.”
So that’s what they did
Well, according to Kath, one of the odder things that kids got up to was to go and look at corpses.
Nowadays, when someone dies, it’s almost de rigueur that the undertaker scoops them up and takes them to a Chapel of Rest, but that wasn’t always the case.
I can remember Grandma laid out in her coffin in the front room (lid off) and the neighbours coming to pay their respects, but although I might very well have seen other people’s deceased relatives, I can’t honestly say I remember it.
Kath, however, led by her pal Aileen, made an absolute hobby of it.
Now, before you think this is too morbid for words, I should explain that although Kath and Aileen were perfectly well fed, this was about 1933 and treats such as sweets and biscuits were rare. So Kath was a willing listener when Aileen came up with A Plan.
“Have you noticed,” said Aileen, “that when there’s a corpse laid out in the house, everyone who comes to see it gets a biscuit or a piece of cake? Why don’t we,” continued Aileen, getting down to brass tacks, “go and look at corpses and then we’ll get a biscuit too?”
It was dead easy (if you’ll excuse the expression) to spot the house with a corpse in it because the curtains were drawn at the front of the house.
So those two little girls went round knocking at doors to offer to “say a prayer,” (Kath’s exact words) “over the corpse”, upon which they were ushered into the parlour and, having admired how beatifully laid-out the corpse was, they’d get cracking.
Usually one Hail Mary would do the trick, but sometimes they had to throw in an Our Father as well before the biscuits were produced, while the householder looked on, sometimes moved to tears by this display of infant piety. There was one occasion, however, where Aileen decided to cut and run when, after a whole decade of the Rosary (!) no biscuits were forthcoming. “All that praying,” said Aileen in disgust when they were out on the street again, “for nothing!”
It came to an end, however, as all good things do, when the Headmistress of the school, a ferocious nun of the old-fashioned type, wise to any form of rannygazoo, called them into her office. “I hear,” she said, “that you’ve got a new hobby.”
Kath and Aileen looked at each other for moral support and Kath demurely said, “We’re only saying prayers.”
Even the most clued-up nun couldn’t actually object to that, but she wasn’t fooled. “In future, I think you should restrict your payers to church.”
So that’s what they did
Monday, March 11, 2013
Pretentious Chocolate
A regular feature in the magazine, Private Eye, is Pseuds Corner, an absolute delight for anyone who enjoys reading pretentious language popped and brought down to earth like a bust balloon. So that's one pleasure, yes? Call it P1.
Another pleasure is, I'm the first to admit, is eating chocolate. Call that P2.
What a wonderful moment it is when P1 and P2 is combined. Here, without a word of exaggeration, is what came wrapped round a posh box of chocs.
"Chocolate making is a science as well as an art. (Fair enough, but here's where the writer really spits on his hands and gets going.). To be fully appreciated, my chocolates are best eaten in a quiet space with an ambient temperature of 21 degrees C and a glass of still water to cleanse the palate. Your senses of tastes and smell are particularly attuned at 11 am and 6 pm when the distinctive ingredients I bring together will really work their magic."
Yeah, right. That sort of thing really defies comment but it’s clearly written by someone who’s incapable of calling a spade anything but a manually operated earth moving device. Nice chocolates, though.
On another note...(Tra la!) I use Wordpress to host my blog and one of the things it has is a nifty little device that tells you how many people have looked at the blogs. In February it was – get this – 20,126.
Gosh. So, if you’re reading this, you are not alone... Well, you might be. You might be curled up with your laptop, the cat, pretentious chocolate and a glass of something or a cup of the drink that cheers but not inebriates, as the Victorians (bless them!) used to refer to tea. Or coffee or hot chocolate with marshmallows (In cyberspace no one knows if you’ve got cream). You know what I mean.
Anyway, after having a dekko at the figures, I got my calculator out. It’s got Donald Duck on the lid and when you lift it up, it plays “It’s A Small World After All.” which means I usually count numbers on my fingers. However, even if I take my socks off and use my toes, I can’t get up to 20,126 (it’s an evolutionary thing) so I enlisted the help of Donald. And Donald tells me that 20,126 divided by the 28 days of February is 718.78571 per day. So if you happen to bump into the unfortunate soul who’s only made it to point 78571, slip them a bar of (pretentious) chocolate, treat them kindly and, with luck and your help, they may become a whole person.
Happy Mothers' Day everyone. I hope you got some chocolate!
Another pleasure is, I'm the first to admit, is eating chocolate. Call that P2.
What a wonderful moment it is when P1 and P2 is combined. Here, without a word of exaggeration, is what came wrapped round a posh box of chocs.
"Chocolate making is a science as well as an art. (Fair enough, but here's where the writer really spits on his hands and gets going.). To be fully appreciated, my chocolates are best eaten in a quiet space with an ambient temperature of 21 degrees C and a glass of still water to cleanse the palate. Your senses of tastes and smell are particularly attuned at 11 am and 6 pm when the distinctive ingredients I bring together will really work their magic."
Yeah, right. That sort of thing really defies comment but it’s clearly written by someone who’s incapable of calling a spade anything but a manually operated earth moving device. Nice chocolates, though.
On another note...(Tra la!) I use Wordpress to host my blog and one of the things it has is a nifty little device that tells you how many people have looked at the blogs. In February it was – get this – 20,126.
Gosh. So, if you’re reading this, you are not alone... Well, you might be. You might be curled up with your laptop, the cat, pretentious chocolate and a glass of something or a cup of the drink that cheers but not inebriates, as the Victorians (bless them!) used to refer to tea. Or coffee or hot chocolate with marshmallows (In cyberspace no one knows if you’ve got cream). You know what I mean.
Anyway, after having a dekko at the figures, I got my calculator out. It’s got Donald Duck on the lid and when you lift it up, it plays “It’s A Small World After All.” which means I usually count numbers on my fingers. However, even if I take my socks off and use my toes, I can’t get up to 20,126 (it’s an evolutionary thing) so I enlisted the help of Donald. And Donald tells me that 20,126 divided by the 28 days of February is 718.78571 per day. So if you happen to bump into the unfortunate soul who’s only made it to point 78571, slip them a bar of (pretentious) chocolate, treat them kindly and, with luck and your help, they may become a whole person.
Happy Mothers' Day everyone. I hope you got some chocolate!
Sunday, March 3, 2013
The refreshment of the spirit.
In The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Lucy Pevensie, after various trying events, such as falling through a magic picture into the Narnian ocean, encountering invisible enemies, sea serpents and being sold (briefly) as a slave ends up in the scary magician’s secret room with a book of spells. What’s she’s looking for (and eventually finds) is a spell to make the invisible Dufflepuds visible but on the way comes across a spell for The refreshment of the spirit. 
I’ll be honest here; if I was asked what would refresh the spirit, I’d immediately think of a tall glass of something alcoholic with ice cubes in it, the sort of holiday that comes at the end of aeroplane journeys or, if I was being healthy, a bracing walk. What CS Lewis comes up with is a story, the best story Lucy’s ever read and, while she’s reading it, she gets totally drawn in, so the story become real, and she’s completely refreshed.
I hope we’ve all had that sort of experience and – I’ve got to hand it to Lewis here – that absolutely is the caterpillar’s boots, as Lord Peter Wimsey said. Stories, whether printed or in ebook form, can completely refresh the spirit. I remember ages ago reading one of those old green-and-white penguin classic crime paperbacks which had a defensive little message on the back. “Detective stories,” it said (I’m quoting from memory here) “are enjoyed by many of our greatest minds and leading men as a relaxation after the cares and troubles of the day”. While one part of me is muttering “patronizing gits,” another would like to point out that if you happen to be one our greatest minds and leading men (or women – I’m not fussy!) I have an excellent series of detective stories featuring Jack Haldean available elsewhere on the website or from, as they say, all good bookshops. And Kindle.
Well, I needed some refreshment of the spirit this week. As Marvin the paranoid android said, “Life! Don’t talk to me about life!” and, amongst the various crumpled leaves in my bed of roses, was the fact that about the last four or five books I’d read had been complete pants. So I tried my own spell for The refreshment of the spirit and pitched on Terry Pratchett’s wonderful Witches books, starring Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick. Wyrd Sisters, Witches Abroad and Lords and Ladies. The redoubtable threesome crop up in many other books, of course, but what a sequence! Do yourself a favour and read them. I sometimes think it’s a shame that Terry Pratchett’s got such a reputation for being funny. Yes, of course he’s funny, but he’s so much else as well. And I love the way he bounces folklore around, like a shuttlecock at a badminton game. Elves, for instances. Tolkien was far too reverential about elves and gave Legolas far too much poetry. I prefer Terry Pratchett’s elves:
Wow!
I’ll be honest here; if I was asked what would refresh the spirit, I’d immediately think of a tall glass of something alcoholic with ice cubes in it, the sort of holiday that comes at the end of aeroplane journeys or, if I was being healthy, a bracing walk. What CS Lewis comes up with is a story, the best story Lucy’s ever read and, while she’s reading it, she gets totally drawn in, so the story become real, and she’s completely refreshed.
I hope we’ve all had that sort of experience and – I’ve got to hand it to Lewis here – that absolutely is the caterpillar’s boots, as Lord Peter Wimsey said. Stories, whether printed or in ebook form, can completely refresh the spirit. I remember ages ago reading one of those old green-and-white penguin classic crime paperbacks which had a defensive little message on the back. “Detective stories,” it said (I’m quoting from memory here) “are enjoyed by many of our greatest minds and leading men as a relaxation after the cares and troubles of the day”. While one part of me is muttering “patronizing gits,” another would like to point out that if you happen to be one our greatest minds and leading men (or women – I’m not fussy!) I have an excellent series of detective stories featuring Jack Haldean available elsewhere on the website or from, as they say, all good bookshops. And Kindle.
Well, I needed some refreshment of the spirit this week. As Marvin the paranoid android said, “Life! Don’t talk to me about life!” and, amongst the various crumpled leaves in my bed of roses, was the fact that about the last four or five books I’d read had been complete pants. So I tried my own spell for The refreshment of the spirit and pitched on Terry Pratchett’s wonderful Witches books, starring Granny Weatherwax, Nanny Ogg and Magrat Garlick. Wyrd Sisters, Witches Abroad and Lords and Ladies. The redoubtable threesome crop up in many other books, of course, but what a sequence! Do yourself a favour and read them. I sometimes think it’s a shame that Terry Pratchett’s got such a reputation for being funny. Yes, of course he’s funny, but he’s so much else as well. And I love the way he bounces folklore around, like a shuttlecock at a badminton game. Elves, for instances. Tolkien was far too reverential about elves and gave Legolas far too much poetry. I prefer Terry Pratchett’s elves:
“Elves are wonderful. They provoke wonder.
Elves are marvellous. They cause marvels.
Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.”
Wow!
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