Thursday, 18 November 2010

The Moving Finger Writes . . . *

And a very good morning to you all! What an absolute delight it is to see you; you are very kind indeed to visit me with such regularity and dedication  -  I am simply, simply overwhelmed!

Today saw me up and larking before the first fevered flatulence of Passer domesticus, posing as a possibly passable domestic and trying to clear the ground, as it were, for the arrival over the next 10 hours of advanced IT solutions - solutions to what isn't actually that clear at the moment but will, I'm sure, become apparent as the day progresses . . . ground clearing consists mainly of trying to rid myself of the huge amounts of canine detritus that manages to accumulate in the path of my closest and constant companion; for a short haired type of being she does shed an unhealthily copious amount of filamentous bio-material- still, I suppose the word would be a sadder place without her and, if I were to be brutally honest, I would have to say that she has been a focus and a raison d'etre in the past when other black dogs have mercilessly stalked me; so other than being the causatory factor for my enforced Mrs Moppist-state today, she's not altogether a bad egg!

So I suppose today I am officially 'at home' and await your calling cards with a discreet eagerness . . . it  is strange to think of those days when manners and formality encouraged such decorous activities as only receiving guests on certain days between particular hours and then for those guest to present to the maid or slavey a carte de visite to announce their arrival . . . actually that kind of life only really began to disappear about ten or fifteen years before the Old Duchess was born . . . not that she would have experienced that in any way, shape or form; there was scant need for such social niceties when one's life was centred around counting the pennies assiduously by the light of an oil lamp to see if food was going to grace the table that day . . . as I have remarked before she has had a life during which she has witnessed such amazing transformations  . . .

I was chatting to one of my dearests the other day and she remarked about some of the phrases I use in these scribblings and how arcane and maybe  esoteric they could, at first, appear; I pondered on this and asked myself some very serious questions about why I chose to express myself in this way and the answer  - should you choose to believe it - was that I simply love words!  Each one fits its own particular situation and circumstance perfectly to create a mood or image; each one summons up a nuance and when I write I want each and every word to be exact . . . I could never write, for example " It's a nice day" (although I'm sure I sometimes do and it sometimes is) when I could dip into the scrabble bad of words that is my head and pull out a much more accurate way of describing the day and the effect it is having on me.  Some doubters may think that I am simply 'showing off' - this is quite untrue; I don't have anywhere near the requisite vocabulary to do such a thing and, besides, good manners forbid so heaven forfend I should attempt such an act of churlishness!  It also does one good, I think, to read something and not quite be sure of the meaning; this then leads to enquiry and the research makes one a wiser and more rounded chappie - or maybe that's the cheesecake?  Interestingly enough in that sentence the software is throwing up a problem with my "enquiry" and suggesting it should be "inquiry" - us sons and daughters of Albion tend to use the former to mean a request for information and the latter in terms of investigation as in "there will be an inquiry into the matter" . . . I think that's correct usage . . . isn't it?

Without, the day has developed another overcast gray pallor and seems to be in dire need of an injection of sunshine  - as am I, along with an infusion of tisane to perk up my tired old eyes!  I've also just discovered an alternative spelling of tisane which is 'ptisane'  - a silent p you see; (tisane is a very efficient producer of p's, silent and otherwise! ) so I am considering popping along to the kitchen of the BPS to furnish myself with means of imbibation, along with a cheery biscuit or two - although it is not yet nine it feels more like elevenses to me!  And so I wish you a thoroughly thurmaturgic Thursday in which some, if not all, of your dreams come true - at least for a little while!

'til next time


Be Seeing You !



 

* Taken from  Edward Fitzgerald's translation of the poem The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, 1859:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

And a title I am considering for a new blog starting next year! 

1 comment:

  1. ~~LOL~~ I bet she doesn't leave as much fur around as three cats, Ian!

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