Nice sunny day recently, despite the fact that the temperature was hovering around 4 degrees C, Abby decided to go for a dip.
This is our usual walk and about 5 minutes from the house. This winter it’s been windy and endless rain but we have had the occasional sunny, calm day.
Our Valentines?
We are enjoying the return of several of the chariot’s prodigal sons of late, but no sign of the lost distaff side returning. Boa herself, Sheona, FoE, Arrers and Christina still keep us in check though.
So now it’s time to whisper sweet nothings to our ladies, in the hope that others will be tempted back by our unbridled passion. Innit?
Rear view mirror recommended.
Next month I’m due yet another birthday.
I’ve grown fond of 72, six dozen, two cubed times three cubed and the year when I was in the wild no man’s land of being 29.
But 73? Numerically boring, even repulsive. But, you say, I’ve clearly got too much time on my hands, if I even think about such trivia.
But anyway I’m planning to milk the max from my last 21 days (3 x 7) of 72. And happily it’s thawing too, so I can commune with nature again; with creatures who understand.
That’s the venerable Magnolia displaying her charms
The DT today gives rein to a Scotch cook called Callaghan (is that genuine Scotch?) who blasphemes to the effect that haggis originates from the Vikings and was made with venison – hence his ‘staggis’. And a Norse etymologist finds a link between haggis and ‘haggwa’ or chopped food.
The modern Danes call haggis ‘hachis’ which is French, from a root meaning ‘chopped food’ so the haggwa isn’t so far away, innit?
But dare we refuse the Scots their glorious invention? Er, yes. Because homo sapiens has been stuffing animal meat into conveniently shaped animal organs since Adam was a lad. Think sausage.
Verdict? Callaghan is good at PR but a poor linguist. 😳
Boxing Day means different things to different folk – no longer a time for exchanging gifts after a day of prayer – and increasingly a time for manic shopping. (But never of course a time for organised fisticuffs, as some incorrectly conclude.)
But time was when (such an elegant phrase😑) the Upper Ten were wont to ride to hounds today, baying for blood, pink in coat and red in claw.
And regrettably the blood lust persists in these northern latitudes, in the pc guise of population control – of the hunted, that is. What the hunting fraternity do is ‘protect’ the deer against poachers and natural migrations, feed them and then send in posses of gunmen to shoot them down for sport. They claim to be trained marksmen but their prey occasionally survive and limp painfully towards a silent, hungry death. How we laugh!
Even though fox hunting with dogs in England is almost dead, stalking deer is alive and well in many countries. But who dares to rob the rich and famous (or the not-so-rich and bloodthirsty) these days? Robin Hood joined Labour and became a preacher.
Have a nice day, y’all!
No, seriously, it was a crisis! Suddenly our (cough) pipes of pan were blocked. In fact nothing would leave the bathroom at all. So I said to Mrs J, who was a girl guide before the Flood, ‘Doesn’t Arkela do it in the woods?’ If looks could kill.
Within a desperately long five hours (y’know how it is – when yer gotta go….), Monsewer Rasmussen drove up in his ‘normous tanker. In a trice he exposed our person-holes (very pc ‘ere, innit?), thrust his long black tube therein and sucked fit to bust, pointing out that we have a diameter problem; which was nothing we could fix without rebuilding the house. Apparently size is everything in his business. He could even smile, seeming happy with his lot.
So it all panned out well. I suppose we could have called the cops, but they’d have had nothing to go on.
Boadicea's Chariot 
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