Tarragon

When you ask someone if it's cold and they reply "it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey" this sounds kinda rude, as well as a sad fate for any statues of monkeys.

Well, this phrase has nothing to do with statues. In Napoleonic times, cannonballs were kept stacked in small pyramids on deck, held together by a brass ring nicknamed a "monkey". When the Atlantic weather got bitterly cold, the brass ring would shrink and the balls would slide off, hence the saying "it's cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey".

Do you know any common phrases or saying like this that have a sensible origin long forgotten?

I have criticised newbie writers of not giving enough "scene setting" information. Appreciate all comments and observation on the use of language and descriptions to set the scene in this story, which was the first in a series of short stories about life and love, several co-written with a friend, Anne. What do you think of this whistful quest for love?

CINDERSPARKS

Soft leather chafing on plaid. A familiar rustle that underlined the stillness of the glade, as he sat bathed in the glow of the fire, plying a needle. Necessary repairs along the way.

Cool night pressed in on all sides, perhaps as much to be close to the Bard's magic as anything else. He smiled. Magic is such a simple thing, spun of simple words. Its detractors call it illusion, because they fear to let it live within their minds, wherein it has its true life. Magic is not the moment created, but the eternity remembered; the joy carried forever like a failing candle protected from every passing breeze of cynical realism.

Ah, my brother the Harper would enjoy such an idea! He chuckled. As he glanced upward, the Moonglow he had cast to bring more light to his work dissolved as the moon herself waxed in the azure evening. A sprinkling of Moonglow essence came tinkling earthward with a faint sound like distant bells and evaporated tantalisingly close to leaves and grass below.

Here is my magic, thought the Bard, that I can weave such words that I dispel the night around ordinary people. That for a moment I lift them to a height from which they glimpse Forever, and tell them such stories of great heroes and heroines that their own troubles are forgotten for a while. And always they ask for stories of love, of romances that have touched the stars. How their hearts are wrenched by tragedies of Love unrequited or lost.

But a true Bard does not wear down his audience by repeating impossible tales. He takes a grain of the possible from within the heart of his listeners and transfigures it into their own possible future. What is love but realising that another heart returns your hopes without reservation? What is love but knowing that together is more than two and apart is less than one? For love does not fall from a tree like some overripe fruit; if it does, then we esteem it not and treasure it too lightly, desiring rather the fruit of some other more distant tree of which we have heard without valuing what is at hand. Romance is the art of living the dream without touching the earth; it is the art of being your soulpartner's hero or heroine, even while dressed in the ordinary garb of the day.

As the Bard sub-vocalised these thoughts, the fine grain of night parted but a few feet from the fire. Through its veil, the figure of a beautiful maiden appeared to form, clad in a silvery light which danced on her skin with the joy of hope fulfilled. Her hair was how he would have expected it, her skin just so and her lips, expressive and artistic, were curled in a wry smile that he should conjure her into existence rather than complete the long journey to find her.

Her figure was just behind him, on the periphery of his vision, so she stepped lightly onto the glen and reached out one moonbeam arm to lightly touch his shoulder. So long, they had waited so long for this moment. To become, and to hold, each other's dream. The night took a deep breath and every living thing paused, entranced.

As her hand glided to his shoulder, he sensed her and began to turn. A gust of wind snapped through the glen, throwing up a shower of sparks from the fire. Aware of some change and suddenly conscious of the silence, the Bard stopped talking. Wind and cindersparks whistled through the trees. He was alone.

In his hands, he mended the embroidery of the fine white silk shirt the seer from the north had given him. You shall wear this on your betrothal, she had told him, when you find each other. And so he kept the shirt until the day should come, and sang his heart before the land.

©. 8.10.95

1. why do bishops wear dresses (surplices) and rings and tell women how to behave?

2. why does Catholicism deny priests marriage but look surprised when some of them abuse young boys?

3. why does God tolerate the commercialisation of Easter and Christmas? In the first, the Easter bunny gets more press than God and in the latter, the screams of "buy, buy, BUY!" drown out the message of the birth of Christ.

What would it be? Would the answer be different if the question said the wish was "just for you"?

From experience, nice guys help patch up their hurting female friends who, once better, go out looking for the same sort of creep who hurt them last time. They never pick the nice guy.

I've heard many girls say it's so hard to find a nice-guy friend you want to keep him as a special friend ["in case of emergency break glass?"].

But why do they go for creeps? To annoy mum and dad? Because "he'll change when we're married"? It's a Climbing Everest thing? Because the human race is programmed to conserve Strength (by having babies to "strong" males)? Or is it some unspoken weird mental torture policy the fairer sex has adopted??

Sure, you might know one who is great (perhaps he should be stuffed and preserved in a museum, unless we breed from him first). But what about the rest? Are they hard to understand and get along with? Communicate in grunts? Think compliments are a communicable disease, as are flowers? Just what is it that makes men what they are?

[this joke is not intended to offend, see guidelines below]

BRIDGE OVER THE AMAZON

A multinational team is trying to build a bridge across the Amazon. They have to swim a rope across the river, which is filled with piranha (you know, the litte fish that can strip all the flesh off a human in about two minutes).

A Frenchman steps forward, rips off his shirt, ties the rope around his waist, yells "Vive la France!"

He swims strongly, but after 20 yards it's munch, munch, munch... frayed rope.

An englishman then steps forward, rips off his shirt, ties the rope around his waist, yells "Tally ho, chaps!"

He swims strongly, but after 40 yards it's munch, munch, munch... frayed rope.

There's silence, and then a Montana logger steps up, rips off his shirt, ties the rope around his waist, yells "God bless ex-President Bush!"

He swims strongly, and gets 20 yards. The team murmurs. He gets 40 yards, and the team starts to cheer. He gets all the way to the far bank and ties off the rope. The team is ecstatic!

Then, incredibly, he dives in the river and swims back.

"That's amazing but it's impossible, how'd you do it?" asks the bridge boss.

"Ahhh think it has something to do with this tattoo I got a few years back now, which I kinda regret," he said, pointing at his chest.

"The tattoo says 'George Bush is the greatest president ever' --- even the piranha can't swallow that!!"

[NOTE -- this is an adjustable joke. Change the punchline to target any person or party or individual you like.]

Paddy turns up at the pub riding a new bicycle. His mate Mick is curious.

"Hi Paddy, where'd you get the new bike?"

"Well, it's a foonie thing you should be for askin," says Paddy. "I was walking over for a pint when a loovely young colleen rode up, laid down on the grass, took off her knickers and said I could have anything I want.

"So I took the bike."

"Joost as well," said Mick. "The knickers probably wouldn't have fitted yer."

The city of Melbourne, Australia, was founded by John BATMAN. There was a chance it would have been named after him, so I wonder would Bruce Wayne have moved to BATMAN rather than stay in Gotham City?

WHO would you be, and WHY?

If there is one thing that makes your hair stand on end and a cold chill ripple of fear run down your spine, it would be....?

If you could make one change (change something existing or introduce something new, or even stop something)... what would it be?

Well, if they were, what flavor would they be? Choc swirl sundae and a little nutty? OR...

I called this poem "The Dacian Princess". All comments welcome, especially from any old souls who recognise the experience.

I looked upon her face and the years melted away

Mayra – where have you been all this time?

Surrounded by noise,

Jostled by Saxons,

We are all, together, washed into a corner of time

Friends and youth and staving off the coming morning

With alcohol and good company.

Her hair drawn back, framing an eager and inquiring face,

Lit by her smile.

She is complex, faceted,

But keeps the diamond hidden

She is fearless, it is true, but the edifice within

Creaks with the length of the search.

The necklace at her throat sparkles like a chandelier,

It is the echo of the old which she values

It is the part of her

Which does not surrender to this century

It is a beacon which both warns of the shoals of jaded experience

And welcomes friends home.

Mayra, it is sixteen centuries since last we met,

You, the Dacian princess, in the Germanic court,

A gifted scion of your noble family,

Adrift in a new land

And I, a messenger, bound not to stay.

Mayra, welcome.

Welcome to the returning.

Even if, this time, I can but savour the nearness of our passing souls.

Feb 2008