I’m just going for a Euphemism.
Euphemisms were invented to hide unpleasant truths or socially unacceptable vocabulary. By shrouding the telling in a gentle cloak, we disguise that which we feel we must utter but would rather ignore. They also can be useful when trying to hide vulgarity or sexual references, especially for the closet prude or when in mixed company. My favourite is “He told me to have sex and travel.”
One concept which has probably as many euphemisms as sex and bodily functions is death:
Gone for a Burton’s
Hello, How’s whatsisname? Malcolm was it, or Michael, yes, Mike?
Didn’t you know? He bought it.
Oh, that house on Woodhead Road with the wobbly car-port and the damp understory.
No. He’s gone. Gone West.
Liverpool eh? Bought a house in Liverpool. Well I never. He always was a Beatles fan. He did a fair rendition of ‘Yesterday’ when he’d had a few. Didn’t think he’d go that far.
No, Not Liverpool; he’s gone for a Burton; he’s sleeping.
Burton eh? That would be Burton-on Trent? That’s South not West. Make good beer there. Oh I see. Not gone there but had some beer. Now that I understand. I always fall asleep after a few pints.
No. Asleep, as in, ‘gone to a better place’.
There aren’t many better places than Liverpool now are there? Burton-on-Trent is ok. Both are a fair distance, just for a sleep. So where has he actually gone? Which pub sells Burton ales round here?
Oh dear. How shall I put it? He’s gone to the Grim Reaper; kicked the bucket.
I know the Grim Reaper. Do a lovely ploughman’s lunch. The Bucket? Just remind me. Where is it? I thought I knew all the pubs round here. Ah: a bucket of ale. Surely you mean that figuratively. No wonder he’s gone to sleep. Didn’t know the Reaper sold Burton’s.
Poor Mike has gone to his final resting place. Now do you understand?
That is amazing. After a skin full I usually fall asleep where I’m sitting. Good old Mike eh? Took himself straight to bed.
You don’t get it. He’s let go. Cashed in his cheque. Shuffled off etc…
It’s the drink you know. Let himself go. Straight out of the post office with his giro and straight to the pub. Spent it all on drink. Shuffles now does he? I always thought he was in control of himself; always walked tall did good old Mike. Shuffles eh? Plays havoc with the heels of your shoes. Wouldn’t like his shoe repair bill.
You make this very difficult. He……..he…… he died.
I’m not surprised after all that Burton’s Ale. Alcoholic poisoning eh? At least he died happy; and in his own bed.
© GEWilkinson 8/07
Tuesday 30 October 2007
Friday 26 October 2007
The Waterborne - first extract
This is the opening passage, in which our angling hero stands on a high bridge parapet and reflects on his life and his drowned, lost love, before setting off on his journey to join her:
The Waterborne
I stand up here, parallel with the tree tops, because of an anniversary that plunges me to the depths of sadness, but the view from here is amazing. It is a view brimming with memories of my fishing life.
The river stretches away to a distant curve with the water sparkling between the bank-side leaves and reeds as it flows inevitably towards me and passes far beneath. There is a pool not far along, beside the left bank, where a grayling would eventually rise and let me know that they were all resident and ready to take the fly. I remember a mink once, just a youngster with hungry eyes, locked stock still on the water’s edge opposite, watching me take three grayling from that pool. The pool is quiet and still right now; too early for a hatch of olives. Blue Winged Olives – those delicate, aquatic insects that the fish love to feed on - probably start about two o’clock.
Look, a kingfisher! I have rarely seen this view of his azure back - from above. Such speed. A sapphire bullet. He heads round the bend and disappears. It was just round that bend that I caught my largest trout from this stretch.
There’s that knotweed! Bloody nuisance. I have lost innumerable flies in that patch on the right down there. It is a wicked, foreign weed with the power to absorb fishermen’s flies.
There is some colour in the water, perhaps peat washed off the high moors.
The deep, fathomless pool under the arches has always been a mystery, too deep to wade, never revealed fully, even in the lowest summer flows. So many memories….of here and of home:
So often have I pulled my wadered feet from the water beside this bridge, icy feet in winter, cooled feet in summer, anticipating my welcome home. It was such a joy, such a moment of quiet thrill, starting the journey back from the chilled water to the warm comfort of her safe, domestic domain: a thrill born of a love that stretched back through our older years: now gone. Oh Alex, my dear, I can no longer bear the pain of your absence.
All the tears have dried now, evaporated and dissipated into the cycle of life-giving water. A mere dampness from those tears could have passed through the heavens, fallen back to earth and be part of the flow beneath me right now. How much would the river rise if all the tears for all lost love were to enter the system at one go? Would the river be a more melancholy place? A river of tears would certainly be salty.
She loved the sea as much as I loved the river and the lake. Between us our combined love embraced all the water on the planet. I remember watching her swim from a Mediterranean beach out towards the horizon. She loved to be so far from land with the deep, dense, blue space beneath her. Was it foolish ignorance of the spiteful anger of the sea, or reckless bravery, which allowed her this pleasure? I would join her sometimes – because I feared the deep and therefore feared for her. Her reckless pleasure shone out from her face as we swam side by side, until we turned and looked back at the receded shore. She laughed at my eagerness to return to the security of the shallows with the small yellow fishes. She touched my cheek, clung her body to mine and her laughter and warm limbs dissolved my fear. Her fearless laughter in the face of the sea was the rock upon which I stood, with my head clear above all dangers.
My rock has been gone a full year and the trembling ground constantly threatens to swallow me up, to bury me with my anger. I am here to defeat anger and to choose water, not fear it any longer. The water, our shared love, will take me when I am ready to go to her. This element of air is becoming too thin; suffocating my life. I will go to water, where she has gone, and find love again.
The bridge parapet is now my rock. It is my Alexandra holding me high above the river and offering to me the deep comfort below. The long fall will begin my journey to freedom and back to my lost love.
The Waterborne
I stand up here, parallel with the tree tops, because of an anniversary that plunges me to the depths of sadness, but the view from here is amazing. It is a view brimming with memories of my fishing life.
The river stretches away to a distant curve with the water sparkling between the bank-side leaves and reeds as it flows inevitably towards me and passes far beneath. There is a pool not far along, beside the left bank, where a grayling would eventually rise and let me know that they were all resident and ready to take the fly. I remember a mink once, just a youngster with hungry eyes, locked stock still on the water’s edge opposite, watching me take three grayling from that pool. The pool is quiet and still right now; too early for a hatch of olives. Blue Winged Olives – those delicate, aquatic insects that the fish love to feed on - probably start about two o’clock.
Look, a kingfisher! I have rarely seen this view of his azure back - from above. Such speed. A sapphire bullet. He heads round the bend and disappears. It was just round that bend that I caught my largest trout from this stretch.
There’s that knotweed! Bloody nuisance. I have lost innumerable flies in that patch on the right down there. It is a wicked, foreign weed with the power to absorb fishermen’s flies.
There is some colour in the water, perhaps peat washed off the high moors.
The deep, fathomless pool under the arches has always been a mystery, too deep to wade, never revealed fully, even in the lowest summer flows. So many memories….of here and of home:
So often have I pulled my wadered feet from the water beside this bridge, icy feet in winter, cooled feet in summer, anticipating my welcome home. It was such a joy, such a moment of quiet thrill, starting the journey back from the chilled water to the warm comfort of her safe, domestic domain: a thrill born of a love that stretched back through our older years: now gone. Oh Alex, my dear, I can no longer bear the pain of your absence.
All the tears have dried now, evaporated and dissipated into the cycle of life-giving water. A mere dampness from those tears could have passed through the heavens, fallen back to earth and be part of the flow beneath me right now. How much would the river rise if all the tears for all lost love were to enter the system at one go? Would the river be a more melancholy place? A river of tears would certainly be salty.
She loved the sea as much as I loved the river and the lake. Between us our combined love embraced all the water on the planet. I remember watching her swim from a Mediterranean beach out towards the horizon. She loved to be so far from land with the deep, dense, blue space beneath her. Was it foolish ignorance of the spiteful anger of the sea, or reckless bravery, which allowed her this pleasure? I would join her sometimes – because I feared the deep and therefore feared for her. Her reckless pleasure shone out from her face as we swam side by side, until we turned and looked back at the receded shore. She laughed at my eagerness to return to the security of the shallows with the small yellow fishes. She touched my cheek, clung her body to mine and her laughter and warm limbs dissolved my fear. Her fearless laughter in the face of the sea was the rock upon which I stood, with my head clear above all dangers.
My rock has been gone a full year and the trembling ground constantly threatens to swallow me up, to bury me with my anger. I am here to defeat anger and to choose water, not fear it any longer. The water, our shared love, will take me when I am ready to go to her. This element of air is becoming too thin; suffocating my life. I will go to water, where she has gone, and find love again.
The bridge parapet is now my rock. It is my Alexandra holding me high above the river and offering to me the deep comfort below. The long fall will begin my journey to freedom and back to my lost love.
Thursday 25 October 2007
Wedding
Well it all went smoothly. In fact it was quite magically wonderful.
My daughter belongs to another man (sob!).
Fortunately he is a sound guy with most honourable intentions and more than adequate means. He paid for the whole lot - no chance I could afford it, I'm a struggling author.
I will start soon to publish extracts from 'The Waterborne'.
The story, briefly, is about two lovers who are seperated when the woman drowns in the Med. A year later the grieving man commits suicide by drowning in a Yorkshire river. They both become 'Waterborne' spirits and the meat of the story is in their adventures as they roam the seas and rivers looking for each other.
Will they meet in the end?
What do you think!
My daughter belongs to another man (sob!).
Fortunately he is a sound guy with most honourable intentions and more than adequate means. He paid for the whole lot - no chance I could afford it, I'm a struggling author.
I will start soon to publish extracts from 'The Waterborne'.
The story, briefly, is about two lovers who are seperated when the woman drowns in the Med. A year later the grieving man commits suicide by drowning in a Yorkshire river. They both become 'Waterborne' spirits and the meat of the story is in their adventures as they roam the seas and rivers looking for each other.
Will they meet in the end?
What do you think!
Wednesday 17 October 2007
Time off
After a searing start from the blog-blocks I have ground to a halt. There is a reason. My daughter, the apple of her father's eye, is getting married on Saturday and life is HECTIC. It is not just the amount that needs to be done but also the way it distracts one's attention. If you are not buying bits of clothing you are thinking about it: even if your house guests haven't arrived they need planning for etc.
The only bit of writing I have managed this week is an article for BBC wildlife and my wedding speech!
The only bit of writing I have managed this week is an article for BBC wildlife and my wedding speech!
Tuesday 9 October 2007
The anglergeek analogy
How to fly fish on rivers.
First the anglergeek's or 'tackletart's' version:
Hardware -
For small streams a 2.3 ATFM 4 or 5 rod with a tip action for tight situations, or for larger waters a 2.8 ATFM 7 or 8 with a mid action for distance casting.
A large arbour reel with disc drag.
A matching double taper line for delicate presentation.
A tapered, 3m copolymer of flurocarbon leader with a 6x point.
A selection of artificial duns, spinners, nymphs and bugs.
Civilian version:
Equipment -
For small streams a short, light rod that allows you to cast short distances amongst restricting, bankside vegetation. For larger rivers a longer rod with the strength to cast further.
A fly reel to keep the line on.
A line with a reference number matching that on the rod handle. The line needs to have a gentle, gradual taper so that the fly will land on the water gently and not scare the fish.
A nylon type line attachment of 10ft, gradually stepping down from 8lb to 3lb breaking strain.
Some dry flies to imitate surface hatching insects or egg-laying insects and some wet flies to imitate sub-surface insects.
Yes, the second version uses more words - but why not?
The weird thing is; as I wrote the first version it all made perfect sense to me! But, you see, I'm on the INSIDE.
Software writers - know your audience.
First the anglergeek's or 'tackletart's' version:
Hardware -
For small streams a 2.3 ATFM 4 or 5 rod with a tip action for tight situations, or for larger waters a 2.8 ATFM 7 or 8 with a mid action for distance casting.
A large arbour reel with disc drag.
A matching double taper line for delicate presentation.
A tapered, 3m copolymer of flurocarbon leader with a 6x point.
A selection of artificial duns, spinners, nymphs and bugs.
Civilian version:
Equipment -
For small streams a short, light rod that allows you to cast short distances amongst restricting, bankside vegetation. For larger rivers a longer rod with the strength to cast further.
A fly reel to keep the line on.
A line with a reference number matching that on the rod handle. The line needs to have a gentle, gradual taper so that the fly will land on the water gently and not scare the fish.
A nylon type line attachment of 10ft, gradually stepping down from 8lb to 3lb breaking strain.
Some dry flies to imitate surface hatching insects or egg-laying insects and some wet flies to imitate sub-surface insects.
Yes, the second version uses more words - but why not?
The weird thing is; as I wrote the first version it all made perfect sense to me! But, you see, I'm on the INSIDE.
Software writers - know your audience.
Blogs are a problem.
Yes - they are a place where you can write anything that takes your fancy.
Yes - they allow you to 'publish' instantly and have satisfaction from that fact.
But:
Who reads it?
How do you reach your intended audience?
How much cyberspeak do you need to learn before you can make the best of the potential readership.
The last two/three postings disappear once you have posted your latest offering and only a dedicated fan would search back in case they have missed anything.
I have just appeared here, re-directed from 'Struggling Authors' and I am quite pleased with the site. I have another blog with 'Writelink' and it is just plain bloody awful! This site takes you through the setting up process with clear instructions and plain english prompts; the Writelink Blog is stuffed with software jargon and strange options. I call it Bloggledegook.
My theory is that blogs are, even still, in their infancy. They are having a long childhood, but that is the nature of cybergeekdom. There will come a time when all postings are made in a simple front end slot and links, photo posting etc. is direct and straight forward. If I was of another generation my aim in life would be to make blogs more user friendly and less exclusive.
This is the first blogsite/forum where I can post pictures directly from my computer, without having to go through a 'host'.
I still do not know what is a ping or a pingback. I don't even know if it is useful. Worst is the assumption that I do know and therefore no explanation is given or I don't understand the explanation because it is written in the same mysterious register..
There are other examples of assumptions of this kind, e.g. backlinks.
My next post will be an analogy, with flyfishing as the example.
Yes - they are a place where you can write anything that takes your fancy.
Yes - they allow you to 'publish' instantly and have satisfaction from that fact.
But:
Who reads it?
How do you reach your intended audience?
How much cyberspeak do you need to learn before you can make the best of the potential readership.
The last two/three postings disappear once you have posted your latest offering and only a dedicated fan would search back in case they have missed anything.
I have just appeared here, re-directed from 'Struggling Authors' and I am quite pleased with the site. I have another blog with 'Writelink' and it is just plain bloody awful! This site takes you through the setting up process with clear instructions and plain english prompts; the Writelink Blog is stuffed with software jargon and strange options. I call it Bloggledegook.
My theory is that blogs are, even still, in their infancy. They are having a long childhood, but that is the nature of cybergeekdom. There will come a time when all postings are made in a simple front end slot and links, photo posting etc. is direct and straight forward. If I was of another generation my aim in life would be to make blogs more user friendly and less exclusive.
This is the first blogsite/forum where I can post pictures directly from my computer, without having to go through a 'host'.
I still do not know what is a ping or a pingback. I don't even know if it is useful. Worst is the assumption that I do know and therefore no explanation is given or I don't understand the explanation because it is written in the same mysterious register..
There are other examples of assumptions of this kind, e.g. backlinks.
My next post will be an analogy, with flyfishing as the example.
Grayling
picture: Rod Calbrade,
The Grayling Society
The Grayling Society
This is a grayling. They are of course, most beautiful when seen in their natural element, but this is the next best thing. The angler has brought the fish to hand and is about to release it; surprised but unharmed.
I forgot to mention that a Grayling is also a butterfly.
Coincidences
Everywhere I go on the web I give the name 'Grayling': it is my 'username'. It is also the name of a fish and that is why I chose it.
For the civilians* out there I will describe the grayling:
It is a fish of clear streams and sparkling rivers, a member of the salmon family and a native to Yorkshire. It is a shoal fish. It is silvery in appearance and has a huge sail of a dorsal fin, which has purple and pinkish hues. It is a beautiful fish and is called 'The lady of the stream'. It shares the water with the brown trout and the chub. Anglers love to see it because it is an indicator of water quality - the grayling is intolerant of even the slightest pollution and will quickly migrate upstream if any appears. It rises readily to the dry fly.
Grayling also happens to be the family name of one of the owners of the 'Struggling Authors' website: Richard Grayling lives in York, which was the home city of my birth. I was in fact born in Riccall, a village outside York, and a place where Richard once lived for a short time. I would like to have had the family name Grayling, but Graham Grayling would have been a bit music hall; but then, I am sure my parents would have called me something more sensible like Richard. Now that would have been an extraordinary co-incidence!
For the civilians* out there I will describe the grayling:
It is a fish of clear streams and sparkling rivers, a member of the salmon family and a native to Yorkshire. It is a shoal fish. It is silvery in appearance and has a huge sail of a dorsal fin, which has purple and pinkish hues. It is a beautiful fish and is called 'The lady of the stream'. It shares the water with the brown trout and the chub. Anglers love to see it because it is an indicator of water quality - the grayling is intolerant of even the slightest pollution and will quickly migrate upstream if any appears. It rises readily to the dry fly.
*civilians - those who do not belong to the community of anglers.
Grayling also happens to be the family name of one of the owners of the 'Struggling Authors' website: Richard Grayling lives in York, which was the home city of my birth. I was in fact born in Riccall, a village outside York, and a place where Richard once lived for a short time. I would like to have had the family name Grayling, but Graham Grayling would have been a bit music hall; but then, I am sure my parents would have called me something more sensible like Richard. Now that would have been an extraordinary co-incidence!
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