It’s a magnus vicus where I live, not an urbs. (Come back, Latin haters, this is not periculosum.) But there seems to be a blossoming of interest in learning and studying Latin; perhaps even a resurrectio! I offered to teach a few discipuli and now there are multi waiting patienter to join us. But no, I must keep the pax Romana with a cohors minima amicorum. The mensae at the Waitrose taberna are non satis magnae for a multitudo!
O Aurigae, opto sitis felicissimi et felicissimae anno MMXIX
(‘O charioteers, I wish you guys and gals great happiness in 2019’)
Soon yet another year will come to its end. It was a remarkably transformational year. After several years of wandering, I’ve well and truly settled down in Dorset. My schedule is as full as it can possibly be and there is an overwhelming sense of stability and predictability. It has been many years since I could say that!
This year, I will have another very English Christmas. I won’t have a lot of time to relax. I’m scheduled to work Christmas Eve and Boxing Day. On Christmas Day, well, that will be busy, too. I will help cook, serve and prepare a Christmas dinner at one of the Anglican churches in Dorchester. It is a very pleasant, civilised affair. For those of us who are alone, there are many in a town where the average age is one foot in the grave, it’s a chance to do more than watch the walls close in on us.
Sorry to talk about this but in two days’ time Drunker will tell us the EU’s rules on ‘no deal’. Ain’t that just typical? They’ve got rules about everything, even when we’re not negotiating! But the important thing is: no deal means we’re are out, Brexit is done and dusted, the political playground is finally closed and commercial reality in the shape of the WTO takes over. What’s more, Britannia and her acolytes will have the whip-hand again. She will choose where to go for trade – and sucks to Brussels. Next please.
Was on a bus the other day (oh, the shame). The driver jumped out to buy a paper leaving the engine running and I thought to myself, what would Lemmy do in a situation like this?
Suppression Order to protect the Guilty Party
On Tuesday, a jury in the State of Victoria (in Australia) unanimously found the accused guilty of the crimes alleged by the prosecution. The presiding Judge immediately issued a gag order covering the accused, the crimes, the verdict and probably the great-grandmother’s knitting patterns, applicable to everyone and everything Australian, on pain of indefinite imprisonment for Contempt of Court.
To quote a well-known American tennis player, “You have to be joking”. Who does the Judge think he is and what century is he living in? The world knows all the facts (and the Judge’s name, which will rapidly become the butt of all current affair jokes, I predict). Cnut (Canute) had more chance of succeeding.
In other news, the Pope yesterday removed his only Australian Cardinal from the nine-member Committee of the inner circle of Catholic Enforcers.
We were just about to sit down to lunch last Wednesday when the cutlery started jumping round the table. I stared at it while wondering whether to crawl under the table and then it suddenly went quiet. We asked the waiter whether that had been a “sismo” and he smiled cheerfully and said “Si”. We weren’t sure whether he had been having us on, but a report on the TV news that evening confirmed it. Then we found this article.
We had left Santiago about midday and had just arrived at our hotel in the Cajon de Maipo in the Andes where the earthquake had not been felt as much as in the capital.
Unfortunately my earlier earth-shaking encounter had not ended so well. Just a few days before I was attacked from behind by a scumbag who grabbed my necklaces and pulled, throttling me in the process and tearing my top. I started screaming like a demented banshee and managed to grab the pocket of his jacket. He raced off, pursued by an angry Scot, still screeching like something out of Tam O’Shanter. The jacket pocket was not equal to the strain of a thief trying to escape and a well-nourished victim trying to stop him. It tore and he got away. I was left surrounded by Chilean ladies murmuring “Pobrecita” and “Tranquilo”, learning the Spanish for necklace (la colleta if you want to know). And where were the carabineros? Husband thought that any copper within a two mile radius should have been alerted by the volume of my screams. Now I just have the scar on my neck, not really an adequate replacement for a necklace.
Now that’s what you call a granny!
Enjoying the first Aus v Ind test. Low scoring, 50/50 winner bet wise at the moment. A bit of rain (time out to read The Telegraph/Beano) and a multitude of Richie’s (Richies? You decide) grey hairing the Adelaide venue with mic accoutrement/s.
Cricket, we love it. Day 1, Marcus Harris’ parents crying in the stands. Only in cricket. For MCC read 10CC, we love it.
Status Quo 1979 vintage. Boredom, isolation, exiled for tax reasons. Not themes that are grounds for prohibition. Yet this bland little number by The Quo has murky undertones and wasn’t banned by the Beeb. Well played, Quo.
M’Dad always flipped wi’ a farthin’ –
An old un, ‘e told us. ‘E knew,
‘Cos it ‘ad old Britannia on one side
And at t’botttom the year twenty-two. Continue reading “The politics of childhood”