Last week of March in the garden

Last week of March in the garden

 

                                                    Apricot blossom

Kerria japonica

Pieris 

  

                                                                  Forsythia

   

                                                Apple 

                                           Plum  blossom               

         

Spring starflower

                                            Kilmarnock willow

  

Kilmarnock willow

  

Magnolia

                                                    Hyacinth

Mahonia japonica

 

Goosey Goosey Gander

 
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Goosey Goosey Gander,

Whither shall I wander?

Upstairs and downstairs

And in my lady’s chamber.

There I met an old man

Who wouldn’t say his prayers,

So I took him by his left leg

And threw him down the stairs.

I often wondered about this rhyme as I recited it for my children. Why would a goose be indoors, or was the ‘speaker’ addressing a goose?

That must be it, for a goose would not be capable of throwing a man down the stairs.

I guessed it had something to do with religion, from the dark days when following the practice considered the ‘right’ one would be safe, but displaying heretical tendencies could cost one’s life, often in the most horrific manner.

In some communities ‘Left Footer’ refers to those who belong to the Church of Rome. The others are called ‘Prods,’ as in ‘Prodestants’ (Protestants)

One interpretation of the rhyme suggests that after Henry VIII’s break away from the Roman Catholic Church, in the early 16^th century, new English language prayers replaced the old Latin prayers. Catholics became increasingly disliked, and feared, for they might rise up against the King. They were treated harshly, though the old Catholic noble families protected their family priests from execution, hiding them in priest holes in their houses. If discovered, the priests would be hauled from their hiding places and treated abominably, along with their protectors.

‘Goose’ is a sexual reference – indeed, being ‘goosed’ is still British slang for being pinched on the bottom (male to female, usually).

‘Goose’ was a slang name for a prostitute from the twelfth century onwards. ‘Winchester Goose’ referred to London prostitutes working in an area called the ‘Liberty of the Clink,’ also known as the ‘Liberty of the Bishops of Winchester.’

The Bishops of Winchester issued licences for brothels and prostitutes from the twelfth to the seventeenth centuries, and taxed them on their earnings. The prostitutes were denied Christian burial and were interred in an unconsecrated graveyard called ‘Cross Bones,’ in Southwark, which is now a memorial to them.

‘Winchester Goose’ became a common term for venereal disease, or for a person suffering from a sexually transmitted sickness. ‘Goose bumps’ refers to one of the symptoms of such ailments. Syphilis and gonorrhoea can cause a skin rash with bumps or sores. Be careful telling someone you have goose bumps. It’s unlikely, but they know the origin of the phrase.

The inference in the rhyme is that a priest has been discovered in a brothel and, incapable of reciting the new prayers, is cast down the stairs.

The things we unknowingly teach our children!

Physiotherapy

 

Physiotherapy

Pauvre vieille Femme (poor old woman) by Anne-Claude-Philippe de Tubières,  Count de Caylus (1692-1765)

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Training my muscles to do their job properly in supporting my back is taking some work. While I can only see minimal progress, Liz, my physiotherapist, is extremely encouraging. It was she who discerned in the first place that physiotherapy alone was not going to improve my pain, and recommended a surgeon she described as ‘a lovely, really lovely man.’

However, in common with many (most) surgeons, once his job is done, he doesn’t see the ongoing work that goes into progressive recovery. He was keen for me to be discharged without any walking aids, as he wanted me to stand up straight. The hospital physio had a discussion with him and changed his mind. I said to her, ‘I’ll be in trouble, won’t I?’ and she said, ‘No, you won’t.’

 I had the impression that it’s a conversation she often has, along with other physios. It was just as well she obtained his permission, (for that’s the impression I had) as although I could stand up straight, I could only stagger one or two steps in a drunken, unbalanced fashion, without support. It seems a long time ago, now.

I was a little nervous about seeing him again for the customary post-op consultation, thinking he would expect me to be striding along like a soldier on parade, but Liz wrote to him this week, setting out my progress thus far. As she said, there’s no rule book for recovery – everyone’s different. She, and the other physios, just wish the surgeons could see at least part of their patients’ postoperative journey.

A good physiotherapist is worth her or his weight in gold!

Looking back

 

Looking back

Frodo the Faller

Dalmatians have short, white eyelashes to match their short white (and black or liver) coats. Frodo had a somewhat piratical look. Strangely, there was another Dalmatian in our road at the time who was called Pirate and who had an even more pronounced eye patch. 

Dalmatians are pure white at birth. The spots develop in the first six to eighteen months. Some Dalmatians are born with coloured patches. The fur on such patches is coarser than the rest of the silky coat. At one time, decades ago, such puppies were destroyed at birth, but now it is realised that they are perfectly normal and make very good pets. They can never be show dogs, that's all.

I wondered what had been happening in this domain ten years ago. Why ten years? I don’t really know. It doesn’t seem possible that ten years have passed. Sometimes it seems like yesterday, while at other times it feels like another lifetime.

So, here is the link to Frodo the Faller – he really was a trooper and a great favourite with all who knew him, including many vets.

Canada

This made me laugh!

As we await the latest heresy from the Great Orange Leader, I came across this revised map. It's too good not to share.

Jigsaw

 

Jigsaw

This is another small wooden jigsaw of oddly shaped pieces. It’s called ‘Summer Badgers’ by Lucy Grossmith, and has eighty-three pieces. Unlike other jigsaws, the pieces do not fit closely together.

It was fiddly, but fun to do. I have some ‘normal’ jigsaws to do one of these days. Not yet, though, as I need the dining room table for Sunday lunch.

I can’t lay out a jigsaw anywhere that the cats might access, as they are attracted to them and will stretch across them, even as I attempt to put the pieces together.

Why do we do jigsaws? What’s the point? I know some people frame them, but I’ve never been inclined to do that. I suppose it’s a challenge, a way of bringing order out of chaos. My time would be more usefully occupied in domestic chores, but where’s the fun in those? Move the dust around and it will settle somewhere else. Mop up the spatters and someone will spill something more.

I know there are badger setts in the woods, but have never discovered them, or perhaps I just haven’t recognised them. Occasionally, I see a dead badger on the side of the road – always a sad sight – but haven’t seen a live badger for an exceptionally long time.

In memoriam

 

In memoriam

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

A yellow ribbon signifies support for, and recognition of, missing children, suicide prevention, and military troops among other causes. Recently it has been used in Israel as a symbol of their hostages.

It was also used by Americans for the same reason during the 1979 Iran hostage crisis. In the 1990-1991 Gulf War, the yellow ribbon was once more used to show support, and hope for the safe return of troops.

The use of the yellow ribbon traces its origins back to the 17^th century, when the soldiers of Oliver Cromwell’s Puritan army wore yellow sashes. These made it easier to identify allies on the battlefield.

April 9^th is National Yellow Ribbon Day in the USA for all Americans to recognise and venerate military personnel and their families.

 

The following short story is one I wrote a few years ago.

They had painted the house the year their son joined the army. He had helped them during his final leave before embarkation. The colour was not quite what they had intended, and they had wanted to repaint it immediately, but he had persuaded them to wait.

‘We’ll do it next time I’m home,’ he said, and they had agreed. Instead, they had tied yellow ribbons round the trees in the front garden, constant reminders, should they need them, of his continued absence.

On the day they were informed that he was missing in action, believed killed, they went out and tied fresh yellow ribbons to the trees. Until they had a body to bury, they would not believe that their boy was gone, and so, when the ribbons tattered and frayed into fine filaments, they replaced them proudly and with loving care.

Years passed, and they reluctantly began to accept that their son might never return. The fabric of the building was deteriorating, and it seemed as if it waited, heartsore like them, for the young man’s return. To refurbish it would feel like a betrayal and somehow it felt fitting that the house should shrink into itself, just as they were doing.

Quietly, uncomplainingly, they advanced into old age, and as the paintwork peeled, so their eyes grew dim until one day, peacefully, they closed for the final time and saw no more. The house crumbled into disrepair, but the trees remained, remnants of yellow satin grown into their bark, a permanent memorial to a young life lost, and to undiminished love and hope.