There’s a faint chance some of our political, media and police sleaze may be cleaned up following the phone hacking scandal.
I’m pinching Mal Dewhirst’s blog format to start this week’s post. (Flattery, ‘n’ all that – apologies, sir.)
What’s amusing me?
Language is so much fun when it goes wrong. I just posted an account of today for some friends and said, “I spent all my overtime on a mattress.” Which really could be misconstrued. And probably will be, knowing my friends. (The shop had a very helpful bedding department and I have – or rather, had – a wad of overtime pay.)
That reminds me of a great example of why we use capital letters: it makes all the difference between helping your uncle Jack off a horse and helping your uncle jack off a horse, tch (though, personally, I’d probably hyphenate jack-off, if I were indelicate enough to mention the subject at all, which I would not).
We were driving around the Somerset Levels earlier today, listing to Seasick Steve and Richard Thompson (not dueting: separate albums). It’s fantastic juxtaposing music from one world with another; the quaint beauty of Wedmore with Thompson’s superb spitting of “Fox” on Dad’s Gonna Kill Me (from Sweet Warrior):
Going back to my friends: one of my best friends at university once leaned drunkenly on my shoulder to ask, “Myfanwy, will you be my bridesmaid? – all my other friends are tall and beautiful.”