The best Middle English word yet

Bacbiteris, or seyinge fals blame on othere men.

I say we bring this one back. I know plenty of people who are bacbiteris. And it would be v useful in Parliament question time.

Things that were much cooler in Middle English

Did you know that in the beginning, or the bygynnyng as they often called it back then, God made vnresonable beestis of erthe.

Gen.1.25: “And God made vnresonable beestis of erthe”

In the King James version this is "And God made the beast of the earth after his kinde"

And in the horrid so-called "Easy to read" version, "So God made every kind of animal". Gah, where's the poetry in that? Unreasonable beasties of earth is fabulous. Every kind of animal is just meh. I think it may be lunchtime, or as they may have said back in the day, ye houre of the clokke for secound dyner*, jt comen. Or something.



*They didn't have words for lunch (they did have the word lunch, but it meant a loud noise) or breakfast, so breakfast was called first dyner, and lunch secound dyner, and dinner may have just been called dinner - or at least does not seem to have been thirde dyner. No logic, these Middle Englische, although they might possibly have inspired the Hobbits of Middle Earth to eat breakfast and secound breakfast...

The ice age, it becometh more larger

I'm sitting in my tiny room in the library, where it is so cold that my nose won't stop running.

I'm wearing a wool* dress that was my PU#1's; archaeologists estimate that it dates from the early 80s. It is *extremely* unflattering - it looks rather like someone has taken a sack of potatoes and wrapped some knitting around it. By by jimminy it's warm. Underneath, apart from my unmentionables, I am wearing a pair of knitted cotton tights from Marks & Spencers, a long-sleeved cotton top, a petticoat and my long boots. Over the top of it I have a wool shawl with a hood, which is on my head, and I also have a pashmina wrapped around my legs. I wish I knew where I'd carefully stored** my fingerless gloves, because right now my fingers feel like I have been trapped in the snow for several days and am about to lose them to frostbite, i.e. I can't actually feel them at all (which does not do wonders for the accuracy of my typing).

So the bits of me that are covered are not that cold, but the bits of me that aren't are v cold indeed, and thus the nose, it runneth over. But I got 5/5 for my essay plan, which I suppose means I am on the right track. Which is good as I think is now 16 days til Paris, and I really want to get the essay done before that... which is only 250 words a day if you think about it. I can do that!



*I think is actually part lambs' wool, part angora. Is kind of fluffy and soft and not at all drapey and slimming.
** when I say carefully stored, I may actually mean chucked in a corner/box/unmapped part of the wardrobe# sometime during spring last year.
# come to think of it, they may have got into Narnia. I bet Mr Tumnus is wearing them. Everyone knows you can't trust fauns, glove stealing little bastards.

Mini ice-age

It seems Melbourne is in the grip of a mini ice age. It was under six degrees C last night - when I got up this morning it was still only about seven degrees. Now, fascinating as reading someone's blog about the weather is, there was an actual mini ice-age, in the Middle Ages, and it is actually quite fascinating because it was caused by what we historians like to call THE BLACK DEATH.

Which, let's face it, is the coolest (ha ha pun) name for a plague evah.

This is how it happened. THE BLACK DEATH killed around 45% to 50% of the European population in a four year period. That's probably why the art of the period is full of Latin phrases that, translated, mean "Oh hai, yr going to die. Srsly" and skulls and corpses and shit.

Anyhoo, lots of folks died. This meant that they didn't need as much farm land any more (also, they had invented a new, more efficient plow called the HEAVY PLOW and also had discovered crop rotation, which reduces diseases (other than, apparently THE BLACK DEATH, although admittedly that doesn't affect crops) and increases productivity. So wot with one thing and another (as molesworth mite sa), they didn't need as much land to grow as many crops because let's face it, dead people don't usually have large appetites (except in Mexico).

So much of the land they'd been farming returned to forest. Cue tinkly ballet music that denotes fauns etc frolicking in forest. And more forest meant less carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. And we all know that carbon dioxide = teh bad, i.e. it makes everything HOTTER. And in the middle ages (strange name when you think about it - what are they the middle OF?) they discovered that the converse is also true - less carbon dioxide = teh cold.

And so the mini ice age was born. And the Thames kept freezing over and people went skating and stuff (if they'd invented skates, which I am not sure about and can't be bothered looking up, because I should really be translating Wycliffe's bible prologue into modern English). And it was v. cold. Just as it is in Melbourne, apparently for the rest of the week at least. We're going to buy the dog a hot water bottle so he doesn't get too cold at night, because so far at least we've resisted turning on the heater, because as Wycliffe might sa, the wuintre bygynneth nat in aprel, and we shele fi3te a3ens ye uise of ye fieren afore juine.

Hurrah for things.

I have now written 1,131 words of literature review, enough that I can relax tonight and then have another look at it tomorrow instead of writing tonight and ignoring the Hugo (whose birthday it is on Wednesday, hurrah!) So that's a v good start (well, more than a start, it's only supposed to be 1,200 words, and plus I showed it to Keith*, who took far more pleasure than any reasonable person would in pointing out that a seven-line sentence was possibly a tad on the long side, and that this is the sort of thing about which I normally tell him off, but anyway, in the end he admitted that I had the idea and that the logical flow of my review was, well, logical). The pressure is on - two 95s and now if I get a mark in the 80s I may cry.

Also in the hurrah basket is the fact that the digital scales I bought on ebay arrived - now I can make a batch of manly shaving soap for Hugo, which should be ready just about when he doesn't have to have his blood thinned any more and can shave with a razor again. Yay.

And in a third hurrah, I just found a highly trashy novel on the book swap shelf, which I have appropriated. I won't tell you what it is; it's too shameful to admit.

Now I'm going to look for another second-hand doona cover on ebay, just in case there's something really cheap.









*Keith is some sort of senior lecturer in something at some university, so I assumed he might know what a literature review is supposed to look like. He kept telling me my referencing was wrong, but that's because historians use a system that is completely different from anyone else's. Just because.

David the bookman, you were not the man for me

Turns out my taste in books is a little too, er, eclectic for Dave the Bookman, although he did recommend a TV show called "Dead like me" - anyone seen it?

Anyway, Dave TBM said someone else would probably pay me more for the books, but if no-one has I can call him back in a couple of weeks and he'll come and give me a hundred bucks for them. Which is still enough to buy another Billy bookcase from Ikea, so whatever, really. Meanwhile we have nine boxes of books cluttering up the living room and I need to find another book dealer. Gah.

This afternoon I am doing a presentation on why Henry VIII was able to get rid of the Pope so easily. When I got my super-good-mark back for my first essay yesterday (did I mention, 95, and I got "excellent" for every criteria? I am v smart), the comments from Peter, our lecturer, said "I look forward very much to your presentation tomorrow and to engaging with you and your research during this next phase of the course." SO NO PRESSURE THEN.

Actually I'm fairly confident about it. When I was an undergraduate, everything was made much more complicated by the fact that I'd almost never done any preparation. Now that I'm a totally dedicated and swotty annoying mature age student, it's all quite easy because once you've done the preparation, the work itself is not that hard. The other thing that haunted me as an undergrad was that I wasn't that confident about my own cleverness. I kind of knew I was clever, but the knowledge didn't go that deep, and it was easier to do a half-arsed job and still pass, and tell myself that meant I was super-clever, than to try really hard - because if I tried really hard and *still* didn't do super-well it might mean I wasn't actually that clever after all.

And yet it turns out, the essay I got back yesterday with a 95 - the highest mark I've ever got on anything uni-related (I once scored 11/10 on a religion test at school - I got a bonus mark for knowing something obscure from the Bible - I can't remember what it was, but I'm sure I didn't deserve it, because the only reason I read the Bible at all was to find contradictory passages with which to confront my religion teacher, who would sigh and say, with all the patience of a saint, "God's just not *like that*, Rebekka") - was the easiest one I've ever written. Amazing how easy it is to write when you've taken all the notes, you've thought about the material, and you're not scrabbling through indexes trying to find relevant bits that will make you sound clever.

Anyway, the presentation. I have read it to Hugo so many times that I pretty much know it by heart. I am going to read it to myself a couple more times in a minute when I have finished writing this. I know a whole lot of extra stuff, so I'll be able to answer questions authoritatively - and if I can't answer something, it actually doesn't matter. We aks Peter things all the time that he doesn't know the answers to (particularly dates. It's funny how people think historians should know when stuff happened. That's not the point at all). The only thing I'm really worried about is that I'm still really asthmatic since the bronchitis - I was trying to read a chapter of Pride and Prejudice to Hugo last night, and I kept having to stop mid-sentence to breathe. Which won't really do my presentation much good.

In other news, I wonder how this 19-year-old feels about being the "cause celebre" of the pro-choice lobby? I'd also like to know how the hell the police found out about something so private - it seems incredible that they found out, and charged her.

Declutter progress #4

There's been a bit of a declutting hiatus lately, what with uni, and Hugo being in hospital, and etc. But we're back on track this week. Inspired by my PUs, who called some guy called David to come and take away the books they didn't want, who then gave them $250 for them, I finally started going through the boxes they dumped on me kindly stored for me for many years and then returned because they are moving house. And then I went through the bookshelves. And now I have nine, count them, NINE large boxes of books sitting by the front door and David the bookman is coming around tonight to take them off my hands, and, one devoutly hopes, give me some cash. Which may or may not be enough to buy another bookshelf, which strangely I need despite the nine boxes.

Anyway, partly this is all inspired by the fact that the PUs are giving us the beautiful persian rug from their dining room, and also on extended loan the Grant Featherstone rocking chair. It's this one, only my PUs one is upholstered in hideous green fabric, and all the buttons have been chewed off, possibly by animals or small children:

The original fabric was fantastic, it had horsies on, but it was really too tattered and had to be recovered. I'm going to have it recovered again, possibly in purple, possibly in gold, or possibly in an Ink & Spindle fabric, but definitely not in purple and gold stripes like the one above!

Anyway, it's a fab chair, and a fab rug, and I really want the living room to look nice to show them off! And clearly, the less stuff you have, the easier it is to keep it clean. I have *almost* cleaned up the spare room, because Hugo's cousin Andy might stay while I'm in Paris, and also because Zoe might come stay in July. And also because I'm sick of walking past it and not being able to see the floor!

Shopping spree!

Last week I went to Spotlight with my PU#1, because they had feather European pillows on sale, $29 each, plus buy two, get one free. I needed two, PUs needed one, everyone's a winner, baby.

So the PU told me she wanted some white European pillow cases for the new pillow, plus the other one that was in the cupboard at home, to put on the spare bed. She was going to buy two at Spotlight, only I was so horrified at them being $20 each - that's the same price as the actual pillows! - that I stopped her, and told her I'd find her some at the op shop. I tell you, if you want white pillow cases, that's one thing you can absolutely always find at an op shop.

Anyway, this morning Mr H - who was told on his discharge instructions from the hospital that he should be aiming for 30 minutes gentle exercise a day - walked up to the greengrocer to get tomatoes, and to the new food shop across the road that has organic bacon (pretty damn good), and came back and told me there was a garage sale. I, natch, immediately got dressed and moseyed on down there. And for $5.80, I got two white linen standard-size pillow cases, two white cotton European pillow cases, one pair of brown suede boots, in just my size, which cleaned up nicely, and a really cute brown knee-length dress, which will look v good with the boots. So now instead of writing my presentation on Henry VIII and why he managed to chuck the Pope with so few consequences, I am planning my outfit for my presentation on Henry VIII and why he managed to chuck the Pope.

Something which, it must be said, is somewhat less important that the actual, you know, content. But which is keeping me busy nonetheless. So I'm thinking new brown dress with new brown boots, black skivvy and black patterned tights. Wooden brooch shaped like KITTEH. Hair in academic-like bun. And as I wear glasses I always look v smart anyway. Now I just have to work out why Henry VIII was able to chuck the Pope, and my plan is complete...

Once again, it's just like being in e.r. Or on a small plastic horse ranch.

I've been sitting all day in the hospital with Mr H, who woke up from his anaesthetic yesterday demanding smoothies, and proceeded to drink three, yes THREE large smoothies before he hit the wall and could not drink any more. It's very entertaining (the hospital environment, not the smoothie drinking).

I have a lit review due next Thursday, so I've been reading the book for that (The First English Bible, quite fascinating in parts) and taking notes, while Hugo reads the papers, but every now and then there's a new patient telling their story to the admitting doctor (who looks like he's around, oh, seventeen, which makes one think he should be at home chatting on facebook, omg, ur like so hott etc, instead of doing his homework rather than diagnosing serious heart problems, but that's just probably because I am unspeakably ancient mature age student, but I digress) and then both of us stop reading and listen like mad, because it's like the plot of every e.r. episode you've ever seen rolled into one. Today the new bloke opposite (who's just had a heart attack) was being quizzed by the doc:

Doc: Do you smoke?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: How many a day, would you say?
Bloke: I'm actually trying to cut down.
Doc: So how many would you be smoking since you've started trying to cut down?
Bloke: Oh, only around forty a day now.
Doc: You do know there's a connection between smoking and coronary heart disease?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Do you drink?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Around how many drinks a day would you say?
Bloke: Oh, about five or six whiskeys...
Doc: You understand drinking that much could also have contributed to your heart attack?
Bloke: Yeah.
Doc: Do you have any family history of heart problems?

Bloke then proceeds to detail how just about every close family member he posesses has had a heart attack. Clearly, there's a bit of the brain that's not connecting to another bit of the brain here... it's not stupidity. When my grandmother was dying of emphasema, I was put off smoking for ever. I haven't touched a cigarette since, and I never will. But two of my uncles, neither of whom are by any means stupid, would go up to say good night to her, watch her lyin in bed gasping for air, and would come back down to the kitchen and roll themselves a cigarette. Fucking mad, I reckon, but there's clearly just something that doesn't make the connection mortality = me.

Anyway, woman in the next bed was complaining that her daughter in law had threatened to kill her, which had made her very stressed and probably caused her heart attack. One of the nurses stuck herself with a needle (must be a ghastly thing to happen, more stressful than a random threatening daughter in law (unless said daughter in law is actually, you know, capable of carrying out threat, in which case well stressful)) - that's always happening on medical shows to enable them to explore pathos, boundary between patient and medical professional, insert other plot cliches here.

I am v exhausted, off to bed - I just wanted to share bloke's convo with doc before I forgot pertinent details in fog of materials about English heresy, Hugo's medical details and the fact that the hospital is sending a nurse around every day for the next ten or so days to give him anti-coagulant injections, and I'm sure they've seen it all before but I slightly feel like I should pick up all the random things that are currently lying on the bedroom floor. With particular reference to sea of newspapers on Hugo's side of the bed that will probably be somewhat difficult to navigate, my clothes, which tend to get shed as I walk around getting changed and only gathered up when it's time to wash them, and a large pile of books about Henry VIII all over my side of the bed. Downstairs isn't so bad, it's just covered in boxes of books. The spare bedroom though, must be seen to be believed (although not by anyone who saw my bedroom as a teenager - they'd believe it without seeing it).

Speaking of, I went round to the PUs' place last night to be fed, after Hugo went to sleep, and discovered there was a plastic bag on the kitchen table. On further investigation, this turned out to be full of the small plastic farm animals (and occasional zoo animals) that were my absolute FAVOURITE THING to play with when I was a kid. And my PU#1 was going to give them to my nieces WITHOUT AKSING ME! Bloody lucky I went round there. I now have a herd of fifty-one (I counted) small plastic horsies. Also, two small plastic bales of hay, in case they are hungry, and a small plastic girl in jodpurs with a plastic bucket of water, in case they are thirsty. Fancy trying to give away my herd!

Quilty goodness

It was a core promise in yesterday's post that I would post today about the thrifty green baby gift I've been working on. And here is it, black, white and red all over (just like a newspaper), the mostly recycled ladybird quilt. In the folded up pic you can see the nice white edges.


In this one you can see the embroidered big bugs I did, out of scraps of red flannelette and embroidery thread from the op-shop (op-shops are the most amazing sources of miscellaneous sewing stuff - I think that it probably comes from little old ladies being moved into nursing homes and their houses being cleaned out. I keep finding packs of press-studs from East Germany).



Here you can see the back as well as the front.

And another shot that shows the edges. The back side of the binding is stitched by hand. It took a fairly long time, and made my arms ache.

And here's me with the masterpiece, for scale.

The quilt is cot-sized. It's mostly made from old sheets, pillow cases and table cloths that had worn out, along with scraps from other projects, and a little bit of ladybug fabric that I bought. I also bought the batting (unbleached wool), although I'm thinking you could use an op-shop blanket if you wanted to be even more recycled.

It's machine quilted - doing it by hand would have taken me until the baby it's for was a teenager. It's good, once again, that you can't see the stitching too closely in the photos. This time, I only broke five machine needles, and there was quite a bit less swearing than with the last quilt. Hugo even commented.

Now, I must get back to my readings on Henry VIII and why no-one objected very much to him ditching the pope. The promised philosophy was a non-core promise. Unless you count recycling as a philosophy, which in a way it is. I'll leave you with that v deep thought.

Still v bronchial

One of the girls I work with has this fantastic theory that if you rub Vicks on your feet and then put socks on and go to bed, it cures a cold. I told her it doesn't work - after extensive testing, I still have bronchitis, but then she said it won't cure bronchitis, only the common cold. Also tested on the bronchitis before I went to the doc were a lot of orange juice, repeated injestions of Berocca, and garlic in large quantities.q

The Doc (hi Doctor Hoffman!) gave me this magic inhaler called Symbicort*, which although it doesn't cure anything as such does mean I can breathe, which is a vast improvement over me with no Symbicort, when I couldn't. It does, however, seem to be giving me palpitations (or something is) - nothing hugely palpitatey, like Hugo's, and it might be the nasal spray, or the antibiotics. Or too much coffee. Or I may be dying.

I just looked up the consumer information for the Symbicort. It contains such helpful suggestions as "Avoid exposure to infections such as chicken pox or measles". Yeah, cause usually, you know, I'm all about exposing myself to measles. And the 'pox. But okay, okay, since I'm on the medication, I suppose I'll start avoiding it. If I must. I mean really, what you want to know is, does this symptom mean "Get thee to emergency" or does is it just, you know, a thang. But heaven forfend they should make this stuff easy to understand. In every walk of life, it is absolutely essential to make all information as hard to understand as possible, so that people stop trying and leave it to the experts.

In this way is the status quo maintained. Just try reading some academia, you'll know exactly what I mean. (Noting that this does not apply to decent historians, who can actually write (read some Peter Brown some day, he rocks) but to "philosophers" like Foucault, who wrote stuff like this:

'If identity becomes the problem of sexual existence, and if people think they
have to 'uncover' their 'own identity' and that their own identity has to become
the law, the principle, the code of their existence; if the perennial question
they ask is 'Does this thing conform to my identity?' then, I think, they will
turn back to a kind of ethics very close to the old heterosexual virility. If we
are asked to relate to the question of identity, it has to be an identity to our
unique selves. But the relationships we have to have with ourselves are not ones
of identity, rather they must be relationships of differentiation, of creation,
of innovation. To be the same is really boring.'
Michel Foucault. Sex, Power and the Politics of Identity.

It ought not to be allowed *shakes angry fist at Michel Foucault and all the idiots who've been suckered into thinking it takes that many words to say anything of note*

I say, if you can't express something clearly, it's because you don't understand it properly yourself. Or you're just speaking shit.

Coming up tomorrow: Why existentialism is rubbish, and how to make a thrifty green baby gift (with pictures) (if I haven't died of bronchitis in the night. Memento mori and all that).




*and also, teh antibiotics. Sometimes, antibiotics are made of WIN.

Ad FAIL (and an ad made of WIN)

There is a new ad that I'm finding PARTICULARLY offensive at the moment. I've taken to critiquing every single advertisment (and discussing my feminist perspective, loudly, with either Hugo or my small furry critters, depending who's in the room).

Coke Zero. The one about "breakups how they should be". GRRRRRR. I'd email their marketing people, if I even knew where to start with that. I don't think an email that just said:

Dear Coca Cola Marketing Manager,
misogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshit
misogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshit
misogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshit
misogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshitmisogynisticshit
Yours, etc

would be very persuasive, but that's all I can think of right now.

The ad made of WIN is the Huggies wipes ad. While I am not so much for the disposable wipes in an environmental sense, this is the first ad I've ever seen where a MAN changes a nappy. And without holding the nose, pegs, etc - they're not making a joke of it, they're not making a big deal, he just changes the nappy and goes back to playing with the kid.

Which reminds me that we (me and Mr H) were going to write a letter (from him) to Clive Peeeeeters, informing them that he was going to buy a new washing machine from them, but he can tell from their ads that they only have washing machines for ladies, so he's going to Harvey Norman instead (their ads show women with washing machines. Only man in sight is the salesman). Seriously, the theory behind this is shit. Clearly their market research shows that women are largely the ones who buy or pick washing machines, so they're targeting women in the ads. What I don't get is why they think showing us other women doing the washing is going to be effective. Women still do the majority of the unpaid work around the home (not in my case, where I do 100% of the paid work and very little of the unpaid work) - and most of us are pissed about it. Wouldn't it make more sense to see the men doing the washing? Isn't it going to make us more likely to want to buy the washing machine if we think that the washing machine might make the men do the washing??

QED.

Still barking like a seal...

I wrote my first uni assignment in, like, 12 years yesterday. It's 1800 words, and has (count them) 47 footnotes. I am inordinately pleased with myself. It took from 10am til 6.30pm.

No-one could possibly suggest I have attention deficit disorder.

I also (pretty much) finished quilting the cot-sized quilt I am making for a friend who's having a baby. There are two small bits I need to re-do because I unpicked them because they were crap (more crap than the rest - I'm still getting the hang of this thing!) and then I need to bind the edges. It has to be done by Friday week at the latest. The binding is the easiest bit though...

Also, my chest is full of GURMS (as n. molesworth would sa) and I feel agusting. I'm at work, in body if not in spirit, and am spreading my GURMS to my co-workers. It makes me feel better. Although lying down and sleeping is also good. I'm going to have two or maybe three days off work next week while Mr H is in hospital, so I do feel slightly like I need to get things done before that.

Right, I haven't posted much recently, so I have two more posts in my head and I'm going to do them now.

The happy people of Who-ville win again

In your face, Bryan Pape, you nasty grinch. Turns out, the High Court also thought your argument against our $900 bonuses was rubbish.

Also, a big 'in your face' to all the anonymous commenters who seemed to be 'close personal friends' of Mr Pape, YOU WERE WRONG. And you SUCK. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Bring on my $900.