Woke to inky black again, took the other half of the little dream-hastener, then woke to inky black again. But it was 7:30, and I’d put away eight hours with only a brief interruption. Up and at it, coffee in the Hutt, editing and typing away at the Substack. Headed down the street to the Black Dog or Mucky Pup for croissants, then made a grand breakfast with local eggs that have some fancy pedigreed name - Longshank Brown Spotted Garble-Hens or something - and streaky bacon. Settled in with the Telegraph and all was well. It was, of course, the previous day’s paper, since Denis gets first read of the morning journal. As it should be.
Still a bit out of sorts, as the morning burst fades by noon, so we have to go DO SOMETHING to get the humors flowing. Soon a trip to the grocery store, which I always enjoy, and Southwold to replace a glass I bought a year ago but have subsequently chipped.
It’s just one thing after the other here, really.
Before we went into town we ran through the script for the promo reel. I’m actually here to do something useful: we’re putting together a pitch for the cruise ships, to take our Peg Lynch show to the high seas. I wrote something on the plane, spent a needless half-hour trying to get it on to the TelePrompTer (Mac’s word processing program, Pages, has decided in its latest version that the export-to-Word function should produce individual .pngs of the pages, instead of a Word doc, so . . . workarounds had to be found.)
Then off to shop. You learn things about other countries when you go to their crafts / homewares / garden supply stores. For example, their Christmas gnomes are called . . .
Then to Waitrose, the high-class fancy grocery store. The labeling is oh so bespoke.
Higher Welfare until the end, I suppose.
Does this sound good to you? It sounds good to me.
Sounds like a euphemism. How 'bout a little Pork an' Pickle, luv? Which reminds me: while reading about some famous person who had been accused of being a sex pest, I encourtered a phrase unknown to me. The man admitted that he had, indeed, been a bit of how's your father.
Seems an unlikely euphemism. How did that happen?
A popular catchphrase of the 1910s popularised by music-hall entertainer Harry Tate, who used it for comic effect to change the subject away from one about which his character was ignorant (hence sense 1) or a taboo subject (hence sense 2).
Another article said the first mention in the States was in 1915, in the Boston Globe. This is so.
Drove back from the grocery trip along the narrow roads, which are wide enough for 1.8 cars. The same ominous windmill slowly revolving in the distance, as if carefully measuring the population for the next sacrifice.
Then, since I had some pep and the light was nice . . .
Still learning, obviously.
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