UK – Page 93 – don't confuse the narrator

plagues & pests

A BBC website headline announces “‘Black Death pit’ unearthed”, and is followed up with a story starting:

Excavations for London’s Crossrail project have unearthed bodies believed to date from the time of the Black Death.

When I read the news, my first thought was of Quatermass and the Pit, so I hope they don’t find any bugs like the one in the photo.

The bug – a langosta in Spanish – has been there for weeks, hibernating discreetly on the bead curtain. At one point there were two of them (hibernating discretely, I suppose).

It looks like a grasshopper to me, but langosta translates as locust, so I guess I should just be glad we don’t have a plague of them.

Which bring us full circle to the Black Death and that burial ground.

“all ye need to know”

One problem with travelling is that half the time you don’t know what you’re looking at.

I am probably less familiar now with the flora and fauna of the UK than with that of Spain, and I have no idea what the tree I photographed this morning was.

When I visit my elderly mother, word puzzles are the main evening activity; our newspaper of choice is The Independent‘s “i“ as even the more expensive Saturday edition provides an evening of entertainment for two for just 30p, which really can’t be bad.

Yesterday we spent so long over the word wheel – our combined words ranging from leat for a mill stream to the Hawaiian luau and the mineral laurite – that we decided to leave the cryptic crossword for today. By the end of this morning’s first cup of coffee, though, it was already half done and I was sent to the village shop to splash out on a Sunday paper.

Despite the weathermen proclaiming that Friday was the first day of spring, we have grey skies and a real feel of autumn in the air. There are a few daffs about, but the most interesting blooms I found were almost as colourless as the day:

make it fresh: pizzas and poetry

The publican’s apostrophe in the picture caught my attention.

Closer inspection suggested that it wasn’t the only problem: my friend wondered what would happen if he turned up with a pizza that had seen better days and ordered them to “make it fresh.”

I was reminded of telling another friend about a poetry competition on the theme “Fresh voices” and her suggestion made that “fresh” ought to be reserved to describe bread, milk, eggs, etc. That discussion might have been pedantic, but it inspired me to write a winning poem.

Hunting around for it in the archives, I am amazed to discover that it was written in the year 2000. It also surprises me that I have never posted it on the blog. Here it is:
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