It was Homer in The Odyssey who first described dawn as having ‘rosy-‘ or ‘rose-tinted fingers’. This morning we saw how apt his description was. There is, of course, as much controversy about the identity of this ancient Greek, or even Greeks, as there is about our own William Shakespeare’s. Something else the two have in common is that their phrases have become part of international language without speakers necessarily knowing from where or from whom they originated. I expect you can all think of examples. For starters, here is one I learned only this morning: ‘Manners maketh man’. We must have all heard this one, but where does it come from?
‘William of Wykeham’, according to Barrie Haynes, ‘was not a bad lad’. This is how my friend began his ‘Between Ourselves’ column of 22nd July 2009, in a Lincolnshire newspaper, Target Series. He then goes on, among other pieces of information, to tell us that William founded both Winchester College and New College, Oxford. The phrase quoted above has been adopted as their motto by each of these educational establishments, for it was their founder who coined it. Thank you, Barrie, I didn’t know that.
Barrie’s column ran for 76 weekly issues from 2009 to 2010. It is entertaining, sometimes provocative, and a mine of information. I am slowly working my way through the collection he sent me. I am not tempted to skip anything. The man is a delight, and I hope he soon succumbs to my pressure on him to start writing a blog.
During an hiatus in the work of Sam, The Lady Plumber, who fitted our dishwasher this morning, I walked the route through Roger’s fields, along the side of the wood, left along 
the bus route, and back up Downton Lane, pausing as usual to admire the cottage garden on the corner. Cosmos, marigolds, and nicotiana were the plants I could identify.
A crow, with another in the distance, tracked the hang glider that reflected the deep blue of the Solent, visible from the fields at our end of the lane.
As I walked along the side of the wood, my face tickled by spider’s strands stretching across the footpath, I felt thankful that I was not a fly, one of which basked in comparative safety on a dead branch.
To return to Sam, she is not phased by any problems she encounters. On each occasion she has worked on our plumbing, she has found the need for another piece of equipment, and has happily gone out and shopped for it. Today the pipe leading from the dishwasher to the water supply was too short, so she bought an extension. Sam is also willing to sort out other problems. Whilst testing the machine she spotted a leak in one of the sinks, unscrewed the elbow and found a broken washer. This meant another trip to the suppliers. She had other jobs to complete first, but undertook to come back to us afterwards, which she promptly did.
Matching the washers had been a difficult task, so Sam was justifiably triumphant when she had fixed the new one to her satisfaction.
Work continued somewhat sporadically in the back drive. We are slowly getting there.
The Happy Wok at Ashley once again provided our evening repast, liquid refreshment being Hoegaarden and Bishop’s Finger.
Tag: nicotiana
A Severed Thread
I learned something new this morning. Some of Jackie’s marigolds are covered in blackfly. Underneath the next pot is an ants’ nest. She tells me the ants plant the flies onto the flowers. The farmed slaves then produce a sugary substance for the industrious insects’ sustenance.
Beautiful scented lilies are now in bloom, blending their aroma with others such as nicotiana and petunias. I always wondered why we had the phrase ‘smelling like a petunia’ until I was educated by my lady. Most petunias we see have had the scent bred out of them. Older varieties have not, and well deserve the description.
The nicotiana, being particularly fragrant at night, are greatly appreciated by our neighbour Vanessa as she walks her dog around our corner before retiring to bed.
Three sunflowers are forcing their way to the top of the pots. They were not planted by us, so we assume we have the birds to thank.
I have previously mentioned on-line Scrabble, during the playing of which I have found a number of good corresponding friends in all parts of the globe. One of the most delightful of these is Heather. The added bonus of this relationship is that she lives near enough for us to meet. Today Jackie and I joined her and her husband Brian for lunch in The Plough Inn at Tiptoe, where we spent all afternoon without noticing the time. We all had plentiful Sunday roast meals after excellent starters. The ladies and I followed this with cremes brûlées. Various beers and pear cider were drunk.
I have been worrying at something for several weeks now. It was during my roast lamb dinner that I was at last relieved of my burden. On 19th June I wrote of my loose wisdom tooth ‘hanging by a thread’. Today, almost painlessly, it cast off its moorings. It was easy enough to extract this from my masticated mouthful.
About thirty years ago in my Social Services Area Office in Westminster, I was completely unaware of another extraneous object in a mouthful of food. In those days I wore hard contact lenses. Sometimes if I’d got a bit of grit under one I would take it out and put it somewhere safe until I could get to the solution I needed to apply when reinserting it. The safest place, it seemed to me, was between my bottom lip and the gum of one of my front teeth. It was a perfect fit. Like Queen Elizabeth I, I was wont to go on a progress around the building, so that the staff could bask in my presence. On one of these occasions, I believe it was Tom who gave me a cheese roll.
There was once an old joke that went the rounds. Maybe it still does. It went like this: ‘What’s worse than finding a maggot in an apple you are eating?’ The answer was: ‘Finding half a maggot’. My own personal version could appropriately begin with the question: ‘What’s worse than finding a contact lens in a cheese roll you are eating?’. I believe my readers will be able to provide the punchline. I never did find the other half.
After leaving our friends we chose to drive home through Burley. Passing Clough Lane Jackie remembered she had seen a house there for sale on the internet. We had a peek through the roses climbing over the front gate and looked it up when we returned to the Lodge. 
Unfortunately it is too small for us.