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!
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Trouble with spam
By the way, if you leave a comment, could you drop me a quick email? I've had trouble with spam and a lot of legitimate comments seem to end up in the spam. I want to make sure your comment is recognised
Royal Par-King!
The news that Richard the Third’s skeleton has been found in a car-park in Leicester has to be the most interesting news of the week. (For a fascinating personal sidelight on the story, pop over to my pal, Donna Fletcher Crow’s, blog at Deeds of Darkness, Deeds of Light http://www.donnafletchercrow.com/articles.php)
Apart from a sister who lives near Leicester, I can’t claim any personal connection with the not-so-merry monarch, but I did entertain myself, while doing the ironing the other night, by watching the Channel 4 documentary, The King in the Carpark. on Channel 4’s version of iplayer, Four on Demand. It’s up there for another 24 days if you want to take a shufti.
The programme was fronted by the comedian, Simon Farnaby, which, for the channel that brought us Time Team, seems odd. Surely this was a job for Tony Robinson?
I’ve got a shrewd suspicion that it started life as a comedy project that got overtaken by events. The thing is, the chair of the Richard 111 Society, Philippa Langley, looked like such a sitting duck for future sniggering. As she entered the brick and asphalt social services car park, she pointed to where a parking bay was marked with the letter R (the other letters of the alphabet were there, marking the various spaces) and announced tremulously that Richard was there. Yes, that’s right; under the R.
The only thing was that she was right. And that was weird. The archaeologists obligingly dug where she’d indicated and – Lo and Behold! – two leg bones and a curved spine later and blow me, we were looking at the guy himself. The archaeologists clearly didn’t quite know what to make of it; at this stage they hadn’t even found any proof that they were on the site of the old Greyfriars Priory, where Richard was rumoured to have been buried, let alone finding pay-dirt straight off. These Indiana Jones type goings-on don’t generally happen on real digs. What was odd, was that Richard, poor bloke, in addition to his other woes, had a Roman nail rattling round inside his skull. So not only did he have a catalogue of injuries to fuel an entire series of Casualty, he’d also fallen on a very meaty nail. It just wasn’t his day...
As Simon Faranby said, as the science got more and more precise, narrowing down exactly who the bones belonged too, the history got more and more foggier. Because, although Philippa Langley, who raised money for the dig, clearly believed that every nasty thing said about R111 was Tudor propaganda (and was occasionally in tears, such were the depth of her feelings) you can ask, even if you’re not an avid fan of Henry V11, exactly what did happen to the Princes in the Tower. They just seem to vanish. And, as the boys, Edward and Richard, were the sons of Edward 1V, and therefore the obvious heirs to the throne, it seems very much to Uncle Richard’s advantage that they should disappear.
In 1674 the skeletons of two children were discovered under the stairs leading to the White Tower. Charles 11 believed the remains were those of the Princes and had them re-buried in Westminster Abbey. The bones were examined in 1933 and found to belong to two children, one aged seven to eleven and the other eleven to thirteen. As they’d obviously been buried surreptitiously and were the right age, it seems likely that they are, indeed, the remains of the two boys.
The clincher in the chain of evidence to prove the Car Park King was really and truly Richard 111 came in the person of Michael Ibsen, descended from Richard 111’s sister. His DNA was a match and – bingo! There we were. Even Simon Farnaby couldn’t find much comic relief there as it really was jaw dropping.
Michael Ibsen is the nephew of Richard 111, seventeen generations removed. If the story about the Princes is true, maybe it’s just as well those seventeen generations are in the way...
Apart from a sister who lives near Leicester, I can’t claim any personal connection with the not-so-merry monarch, but I did entertain myself, while doing the ironing the other night, by watching the Channel 4 documentary, The King in the Carpark. on Channel 4’s version of iplayer, Four on Demand. It’s up there for another 24 days if you want to take a shufti.
The programme was fronted by the comedian, Simon Farnaby, which, for the channel that brought us Time Team, seems odd. Surely this was a job for Tony Robinson?
I’ve got a shrewd suspicion that it started life as a comedy project that got overtaken by events. The thing is, the chair of the Richard 111 Society, Philippa Langley, looked like such a sitting duck for future sniggering. As she entered the brick and asphalt social services car park, she pointed to where a parking bay was marked with the letter R (the other letters of the alphabet were there, marking the various spaces) and announced tremulously that Richard was there. Yes, that’s right; under the R.
The only thing was that she was right. And that was weird. The archaeologists obligingly dug where she’d indicated and – Lo and Behold! – two leg bones and a curved spine later and blow me, we were looking at the guy himself. The archaeologists clearly didn’t quite know what to make of it; at this stage they hadn’t even found any proof that they were on the site of the old Greyfriars Priory, where Richard was rumoured to have been buried, let alone finding pay-dirt straight off. These Indiana Jones type goings-on don’t generally happen on real digs. What was odd, was that Richard, poor bloke, in addition to his other woes, had a Roman nail rattling round inside his skull. So not only did he have a catalogue of injuries to fuel an entire series of Casualty, he’d also fallen on a very meaty nail. It just wasn’t his day...
As Simon Faranby said, as the science got more and more precise, narrowing down exactly who the bones belonged too, the history got more and more foggier. Because, although Philippa Langley, who raised money for the dig, clearly believed that every nasty thing said about R111 was Tudor propaganda (and was occasionally in tears, such were the depth of her feelings) you can ask, even if you’re not an avid fan of Henry V11, exactly what did happen to the Princes in the Tower. They just seem to vanish. And, as the boys, Edward and Richard, were the sons of Edward 1V, and therefore the obvious heirs to the throne, it seems very much to Uncle Richard’s advantage that they should disappear.
In 1674 the skeletons of two children were discovered under the stairs leading to the White Tower. Charles 11 believed the remains were those of the Princes and had them re-buried in Westminster Abbey. The bones were examined in 1933 and found to belong to two children, one aged seven to eleven and the other eleven to thirteen. As they’d obviously been buried surreptitiously and were the right age, it seems likely that they are, indeed, the remains of the two boys.
The clincher in the chain of evidence to prove the Car Park King was really and truly Richard 111 came in the person of Michael Ibsen, descended from Richard 111’s sister. His DNA was a match and – bingo! There we were. Even Simon Farnaby couldn’t find much comic relief there as it really was jaw dropping.
Michael Ibsen is the nephew of Richard 111, seventeen generations removed. If the story about the Princes is true, maybe it’s just as well those seventeen generations are in the way...
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Romulus and Remus
I don’t know if you’ve ever listened to the programme, but a fairly regular Thursday morning date for me is BBC Radio Four’s In Our Time with Melvin Bragg. If you can’t be near a radio at nine in the morning, it’s on BBC iplayer and usually worth catching. I’m not sure why it’s called In Our Time, by the way, as that sounds like current affairs. It isn’t. The topics discussed range all over the place, from astronomy to Robin Hood. The format is to gather together three academics, specialists in their field, and launch them at a subject.
This week’s topic was a discussion by experts on Ancient Rome, Mary Beard, Tim Cornell and Peter Wiseman, about Rome’s foundation myth of Romulus and Remus. Now, at the risk of impinging on my pal, Jane Finnis’s territory, I found it fascinating.
You see, as foundation myths go, it’s very odd. Very briefly, the twins, Romulus and Remus are the children of Rhea Silva, daughter of King Numitor. Wicked Uncle Amulius, Numitor’s brother, seized power, killed Numitor and all his male heirs and forced Rhea Silva to become a vestal virgin. So far, so fairy tale, especially when the god Mars pops in for a fling with Rhea Silva. The resulting twin boys (difficult to explain for a vestal virgin!) are thrown into the river Tiber to die. You can imagine Wicked Uncle Amulius dusting his hands together and saying ‘ut 'quod tunc’ or ‘that’s that, then’, laughing evilly and twirling his moustache. (Moustaches are obligatory for Wicked Uncles.)
However.... a she-wolf suckles them, a woodpecker feeds them and a shepherd and Mrs shepherd find the boys and bring them up as simple shepherds. Only R+R have charisma, gather followers – lots of them – and are seriously annoyed when they find out about Amulius’s misdeeds. One ex-Wicked Uncle later, and they’re ready to found a city. Only, like an ancient version of Escape To The Country, they can’t agree where to put it. Romulus fancies the Palatine Hill, Remus prefers the view from the Aventine. Things are said, tempers flare and Romulus kills Remus, gets his way and founds Rome.
Okay... the odd thing about this myth, as unpicked by Mary Beard et al, is that although the Romans told and re-told the story, they were seriously embarrassed by it. Fratricide was frowned on and they weren’t very happy about the wolf part either. Because the Roman slang for a lady of uncertain virtue was lupa or she-wolf, many preferred to believe R+R had been nurtured by a kind hearted lady generous with her favours. And why twins? Twins crop up in myths to explain duplication but R+R don’t duplicate or explain anything; one simply murders the other. If you’re inventing a hero, he’s a lot more heroic if he doesn’t murder his brother. There wasn’t really an explanation, just an examination of the oddities of the story and a discussion of how myths and folk-tales come to be created in the first place.
One theory that wasn’t aired was this; what if the heart of the tale is true? What if two abandoned boys were brought up by wolves? (I find the woodpecker a bit hard to swallow!) Put “feral children” into Google and you’ll find examples – some very recent – of more or less just that. The poor kids hardly ever adjust to human society but that could be where the Mr and Mrs shepherd come in.
Interesting, eh?
This week’s topic was a discussion by experts on Ancient Rome, Mary Beard, Tim Cornell and Peter Wiseman, about Rome’s foundation myth of Romulus and Remus. Now, at the risk of impinging on my pal, Jane Finnis’s territory, I found it fascinating.
You see, as foundation myths go, it’s very odd. Very briefly, the twins, Romulus and Remus are the children of Rhea Silva, daughter of King Numitor. Wicked Uncle Amulius, Numitor’s brother, seized power, killed Numitor and all his male heirs and forced Rhea Silva to become a vestal virgin. So far, so fairy tale, especially when the god Mars pops in for a fling with Rhea Silva. The resulting twin boys (difficult to explain for a vestal virgin!) are thrown into the river Tiber to die. You can imagine Wicked Uncle Amulius dusting his hands together and saying ‘ut 'quod tunc’ or ‘that’s that, then’, laughing evilly and twirling his moustache. (Moustaches are obligatory for Wicked Uncles.)
However.... a she-wolf suckles them, a woodpecker feeds them and a shepherd and Mrs shepherd find the boys and bring them up as simple shepherds. Only R+R have charisma, gather followers – lots of them – and are seriously annoyed when they find out about Amulius’s misdeeds. One ex-Wicked Uncle later, and they’re ready to found a city. Only, like an ancient version of Escape To The Country, they can’t agree where to put it. Romulus fancies the Palatine Hill, Remus prefers the view from the Aventine. Things are said, tempers flare and Romulus kills Remus, gets his way and founds Rome.
Okay... the odd thing about this myth, as unpicked by Mary Beard et al, is that although the Romans told and re-told the story, they were seriously embarrassed by it. Fratricide was frowned on and they weren’t very happy about the wolf part either. Because the Roman slang for a lady of uncertain virtue was lupa or she-wolf, many preferred to believe R+R had been nurtured by a kind hearted lady generous with her favours. And why twins? Twins crop up in myths to explain duplication but R+R don’t duplicate or explain anything; one simply murders the other. If you’re inventing a hero, he’s a lot more heroic if he doesn’t murder his brother. There wasn’t really an explanation, just an examination of the oddities of the story and a discussion of how myths and folk-tales come to be created in the first place.
One theory that wasn’t aired was this; what if the heart of the tale is true? What if two abandoned boys were brought up by wolves? (I find the woodpecker a bit hard to swallow!) Put “feral children” into Google and you’ll find examples – some very recent – of more or less just that. The poor kids hardly ever adjust to human society but that could be where the Mr and Mrs shepherd come in.
Interesting, eh?
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