In Ted Hughes, The Life of a Poet by Elaine Feinstein, mention is made of the time when Sylvia Plath was in hospital. The year was 1961 and she had just had her appendix removed. Feinstein writes:
‘…her delight in Ted’s hospital visits and the steak sandwiches he brought to supplement the poor hospital food…’
Forty-six years later, plus ça change!
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Thursday, March 08, 2007
What a Difference a Vowel Makes!
Recently, my wife and I undertook a walk in Lancashire, commencing from the picturesque village of Bolton-by-Bowland. The walk encompassed several very wet areas of pastureland, which were memorable only in so much as the thick, clogging mud deftly stripped our boots of all layers of waxing. It must be years since we could see the original colour of the leather!
However, the most interesting part of the walk was along a green lane, barely touched by the hundred-plus years which have passed since it was originally fashioned. It was tree-lined for its duration and made for a quite fascinating walk. Everything about it exuded a sense of age. All it required was for a little imagination to bring to life the people, carts and animals which had trodden that same path through the passage of time.
However, it was at the end of the green lane when the guide book started to make the walk really interesting:
‘At the end of the lane, debauch onto the B-road which runs at right angles to the lane.’
How extraordinary, I thought! Turning to my wife, I proceeded to repeat the directions and for the next one hundred yards we amused ourselves thinking about just how we were supposed to debauch onto the road. It has to be said that the fantasies ran wild and with liberated abandonment; but what the heck! After all, we were in the Lancashire countryside and, as Yorkshire people would quickly inform one, there are some strange folks in Lancashire!
Anyway, back at the cottage, I proceeded to muse on the author’s unusual choice of word for his directions and wondered whether there was an alternative meaning to the one I was so quick to assume. Out came the dictionary and with it, a revelation.
True enough, the word debauch is defined as follows:
verb: to corrupt morally; noun: a bout of excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures.
As I thought, there was no alternative meaning. So I picked up the guide book again, the better to consider this bizarre instruction. That was when I realised that the printed word was actually ‘debouch’; i.e. spelt with an ‘o’ and not an ‘a’. Returning to the dictionary, debouch is defined thus:
verb: emerge from a confined space into a wide, open area.
This, of course, within the context of the walk, makes far greater sense; albeit nowhere near as much fun.
Both words are derived from the French, which is a language I have never got on well with. My amusing mistake with the aforementioned words only served to heighten my conviction that it is a language which has the capacity to get me into a great deal of trouble. Perhaps more than I had ever previously imagined.
Best stick to English, methinks.
However, the most interesting part of the walk was along a green lane, barely touched by the hundred-plus years which have passed since it was originally fashioned. It was tree-lined for its duration and made for a quite fascinating walk. Everything about it exuded a sense of age. All it required was for a little imagination to bring to life the people, carts and animals which had trodden that same path through the passage of time.
However, it was at the end of the green lane when the guide book started to make the walk really interesting:
‘At the end of the lane, debauch onto the B-road which runs at right angles to the lane.’
How extraordinary, I thought! Turning to my wife, I proceeded to repeat the directions and for the next one hundred yards we amused ourselves thinking about just how we were supposed to debauch onto the road. It has to be said that the fantasies ran wild and with liberated abandonment; but what the heck! After all, we were in the Lancashire countryside and, as Yorkshire people would quickly inform one, there are some strange folks in Lancashire!
Anyway, back at the cottage, I proceeded to muse on the author’s unusual choice of word for his directions and wondered whether there was an alternative meaning to the one I was so quick to assume. Out came the dictionary and with it, a revelation.
True enough, the word debauch is defined as follows:
verb: to corrupt morally; noun: a bout of excessive indulgence in sensual pleasures.
As I thought, there was no alternative meaning. So I picked up the guide book again, the better to consider this bizarre instruction. That was when I realised that the printed word was actually ‘debouch’; i.e. spelt with an ‘o’ and not an ‘a’. Returning to the dictionary, debouch is defined thus:
verb: emerge from a confined space into a wide, open area.
This, of course, within the context of the walk, makes far greater sense; albeit nowhere near as much fun.
Both words are derived from the French, which is a language I have never got on well with. My amusing mistake with the aforementioned words only served to heighten my conviction that it is a language which has the capacity to get me into a great deal of trouble. Perhaps more than I had ever previously imagined.
Best stick to English, methinks.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Inspired by a Snake
Many years ago, whilst living in Kent as a teenager, I would often catch the train up to Charing Cross, London and buy a cheap ‘student ticket’ to whichever concert was currently on in the South Bank concert halls.
As now, there were three to choose from – The Royal Festival Hall, The Queen Elizabeth Centre (containing the Purcell Room) and the Hayward Centre. Outside, the halls are, to my mind, an uninspiring mass of amorphous concrete. However, inside they are world-class concert venues, hosting everything from international orchestras and operas to jazz, popular music and dance.
My teenage mind would be stretched well beyond its boundaries by the magical sounds and sights I beheld there. I have no doubt that the halls played an important part in fashioning the great love for music which has continued with me through life.
The South Bank Halls were also influential for another similar, but slightly different, reason.
On leaving any given concert, one would exit the glittering colour and lights of the halls and step back into the grey world that existed outside. Even the cover of night did little to hide the starkness of the concrete walkways, the grey and foreboding waters of the River Thames and the metal structure and harsh lighting of the railway bridge which stretched across the river, connecting the South Bank with the Charing Cross Station.
It would have been easy to quickly lose the magic of that wonderful music, so eagerly absorbed over the previous few hours. However, salvation was at hand. As one climbed the concrete steps up to the pedestrian bridge alongside the railway line, the mournful but alluring sound of a lone tenor saxophone would, almost without fail, penetrate the gloom of the London night. Instantly, my plummeting soul would be rescued and once again lifted by an unseen melodious hand, this time to soar on the melodies of jazz and blues music. Even now, some thirty years later, I can remember walking across that bridge to the sound of the Pink Panther theme tune or Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.
There can be no doubt that it is because of that, almost invisible, busker, crouched into a corner of the bridge, that I developed the need to learn the saxophone.
Alas, the time for such a venture did not arrive until my fortieth birthday, when my wife decided to put my aspiration to the test and presented me with a tenor saxophone. (An alto saxophone followed two years later). I warmed to the challenge and, with the aid of a masterly tuition book, taught myself the rudiments of playing. Alas, though the spirit is strong, time is pressured. As a result, even though I can knock out a good few tunes, I have not progressed within the past year or so.
That was until last Saturday.
The Sands Venue is a high-class jazz venue in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire (www.the-sands.co.uk), attracting world-class musicians. One of the greatest pleasures is the opportunity to meet and informally chat to the musicians during the interval, as they will often sit on the edge of the stage, signing CD covers. My wife and I frequently attend there, enjoying the sophisticated environment, high quality food and excellent live music. It is where we were on Saturday night for an evening’s entertainment by the Snake Davis Band.
Snake Davis (www.snakedavis.com) is well-known as one of this country’s leading saxophonists. Many people will have seen him as the resident saxophonist on the Jonathan Ross Show and he has additionally played for bands such as the Eurythmics, Smokey Robinson, Amy Winehouse, Lisa Stansfield and Will Young, to name but a few.
The band is a quartet, comprised of keyboards, drums and bass guitar, along with Snake Davis on tenor, alto and soprano saxophones, flute, tin-whistle and shakuhachi (very similar to the Peruvian queena). In short, he is a multi-talented virtuoso.
To say that I was mesmerised would be an understatement. His playing was inspirational and I could once again feel the powerful urge to blow my own horn, so to speak. By the time of the interval, I was a fully-paid member of his fan-club (well, at least in theory) and the proud possessor of three of his CD recordings. However, the best was yet to come. For, on glancing at the back page of the ‘forthcoming attractions’ leaflet, I noted with astonishment that his partner lives in a village only eight miles from me. What is more, Snake Davis is holding a saxophone workshop in the same village in a few months time.
Apparently, he teaches a small group of fifteen for a two hour period, discussing a variety of techniques and allowing an opportunity to try out the same under his watchful eye. All he asks is that you can already ‘knock out a few scales and a couple of tunes’.
Well, it is a fact that, by the time the evening was over, he was only looking for another fourteen students. What an excellent opportunity!
Come Sunday morning, my saxophones were dusted off and the scales were being once again practised. Now, as for the pieces…perhaps The Pink Panther theme and Take Five would be appropriate choices?
As now, there were three to choose from – The Royal Festival Hall, The Queen Elizabeth Centre (containing the Purcell Room) and the Hayward Centre. Outside, the halls are, to my mind, an uninspiring mass of amorphous concrete. However, inside they are world-class concert venues, hosting everything from international orchestras and operas to jazz, popular music and dance.
My teenage mind would be stretched well beyond its boundaries by the magical sounds and sights I beheld there. I have no doubt that the halls played an important part in fashioning the great love for music which has continued with me through life.
The South Bank Halls were also influential for another similar, but slightly different, reason.
On leaving any given concert, one would exit the glittering colour and lights of the halls and step back into the grey world that existed outside. Even the cover of night did little to hide the starkness of the concrete walkways, the grey and foreboding waters of the River Thames and the metal structure and harsh lighting of the railway bridge which stretched across the river, connecting the South Bank with the Charing Cross Station.
It would have been easy to quickly lose the magic of that wonderful music, so eagerly absorbed over the previous few hours. However, salvation was at hand. As one climbed the concrete steps up to the pedestrian bridge alongside the railway line, the mournful but alluring sound of a lone tenor saxophone would, almost without fail, penetrate the gloom of the London night. Instantly, my plummeting soul would be rescued and once again lifted by an unseen melodious hand, this time to soar on the melodies of jazz and blues music. Even now, some thirty years later, I can remember walking across that bridge to the sound of the Pink Panther theme tune or Dave Brubeck’s Take Five.
There can be no doubt that it is because of that, almost invisible, busker, crouched into a corner of the bridge, that I developed the need to learn the saxophone.
Alas, the time for such a venture did not arrive until my fortieth birthday, when my wife decided to put my aspiration to the test and presented me with a tenor saxophone. (An alto saxophone followed two years later). I warmed to the challenge and, with the aid of a masterly tuition book, taught myself the rudiments of playing. Alas, though the spirit is strong, time is pressured. As a result, even though I can knock out a good few tunes, I have not progressed within the past year or so.
That was until last Saturday.
The Sands Venue is a high-class jazz venue in Gainsborough, Lincolnshire (www.the-sands.co.uk), attracting world-class musicians. One of the greatest pleasures is the opportunity to meet and informally chat to the musicians during the interval, as they will often sit on the edge of the stage, signing CD covers. My wife and I frequently attend there, enjoying the sophisticated environment, high quality food and excellent live music. It is where we were on Saturday night for an evening’s entertainment by the Snake Davis Band.
Snake Davis (www.snakedavis.com) is well-known as one of this country’s leading saxophonists. Many people will have seen him as the resident saxophonist on the Jonathan Ross Show and he has additionally played for bands such as the Eurythmics, Smokey Robinson, Amy Winehouse, Lisa Stansfield and Will Young, to name but a few.
The band is a quartet, comprised of keyboards, drums and bass guitar, along with Snake Davis on tenor, alto and soprano saxophones, flute, tin-whistle and shakuhachi (very similar to the Peruvian queena). In short, he is a multi-talented virtuoso.
To say that I was mesmerised would be an understatement. His playing was inspirational and I could once again feel the powerful urge to blow my own horn, so to speak. By the time of the interval, I was a fully-paid member of his fan-club (well, at least in theory) and the proud possessor of three of his CD recordings. However, the best was yet to come. For, on glancing at the back page of the ‘forthcoming attractions’ leaflet, I noted with astonishment that his partner lives in a village only eight miles from me. What is more, Snake Davis is holding a saxophone workshop in the same village in a few months time.
Apparently, he teaches a small group of fifteen for a two hour period, discussing a variety of techniques and allowing an opportunity to try out the same under his watchful eye. All he asks is that you can already ‘knock out a few scales and a couple of tunes’.
Well, it is a fact that, by the time the evening was over, he was only looking for another fourteen students. What an excellent opportunity!
Come Sunday morning, my saxophones were dusted off and the scales were being once again practised. Now, as for the pieces…perhaps The Pink Panther theme and Take Five would be appropriate choices?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
The Clue is in the Words
Whilst rummaging through a bookshop in Sedbergh in Cumbria a couple of weeks ago, I came across a biography of the former Poet Laureate, the late Ted Hughes. It is entitled Ted Hughes - The Life of a Poet and was written by Elaine Feinstein shortly after the poet's death.
Ted Hughes was married to the American poet, Sylvia Plath.
It was therefore with interest that I noted an article in today's Sunday Telegraph by Mark Sanderson, writing in the Literary Life section of the Seven magazine. Having read his article, I plucked a copy of Sylvia Plath's Selected Poems (edited by Ted Hughes) from my library shelves and studied her poem entitled Edge. It commences:
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
On this day in 1963, one week after that poem was written, Sylvia Plath committed suicide.
How often is it that do we not listen to what people are really saying to us?
Ted Hughes was married to the American poet, Sylvia Plath.
It was therefore with interest that I noted an article in today's Sunday Telegraph by Mark Sanderson, writing in the Literary Life section of the Seven magazine. Having read his article, I plucked a copy of Sylvia Plath's Selected Poems (edited by Ted Hughes) from my library shelves and studied her poem entitled Edge. It commences:
The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment,
The illusion of a Greek necessity
Flows in the scrolls of her toga,
Her bare
Feet seem to be saying:
We have come so far, it is over.
On this day in 1963, one week after that poem was written, Sylvia Plath committed suicide.
How often is it that do we not listen to what people are really saying to us?
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Not Quite What the Doctor Ordered
The following was sent to me this morning. Whilst perhaps not quite what the doctor ordered, it is certainly ‘food for thought’:
After an exhaustive review of research literature, here's the final
word on nutrition and health:
1. Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
3. Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks
than us.
4. Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart
attacks than us.
5. Germans drink beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer
fewer heart attacks than us.
CONCLUSION:
Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you!
After an exhaustive review of research literature, here's the final
word on nutrition and health:
1. Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
3. Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks
than us.
4. Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart
attacks than us.
5. Germans drink beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer
fewer heart attacks than us.
CONCLUSION:
Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you!
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Balmy January
The bird of dawning singeth all night long
William Shakespeare
Hamlet (1601) act 1, sc. 1,
On the 7th February 2006, I entered an article on this blog entitled The Dawn Chorus (see link). I was intrigued by the fact that the local bird life had commenced its dawn chorus so early in the year.
Well, this year sees my earlier comments well and truly surpassed. For, as I write,the blackbirds have been in full melodious song for the past hour. Along with the various trees which are now in blossom, if that doesn't represent a sign of global warming, then I am not sure what does.
These may be ominous signs for many scientists. However, on a personal level, I cannot help but greet the unseasonal warmth and the earlier onset of the dawn chorus as bonuses to be enjoyed whilst one may.
William Shakespeare
Hamlet (1601) act 1, sc. 1,
On the 7th February 2006, I entered an article on this blog entitled The Dawn Chorus (see link). I was intrigued by the fact that the local bird life had commenced its dawn chorus so early in the year.
Well, this year sees my earlier comments well and truly surpassed. For, as I write,the blackbirds have been in full melodious song for the past hour. Along with the various trees which are now in blossom, if that doesn't represent a sign of global warming, then I am not sure what does.
These may be ominous signs for many scientists. However, on a personal level, I cannot help but greet the unseasonal warmth and the earlier onset of the dawn chorus as bonuses to be enjoyed whilst one may.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Research I Can Warm To
The independent food research organisation, Leatherhead Foods International, has recently conducted a study on behalf of the Countryside Alliance. The results are music to my gastronomic ears.
Apparently, there are more benefits to eating game than previously realised. Meats such as pheasant, partridge, venison and quail are not only low in cholesterol, but additionally have high levels of selenium. Selenium boosts the immune system, may have an anti-oxidant effect (good in helping to prevent cancers) and can elevate mood.
Bearing in mind that a glass or two of red wine per day is also thought to have its benefits, what better way to ward off the winter blues than to partake in a meal of game, washed down by a decent glass of claret?
I haven’t had breakfast yet…but I am already looking forward to dinner…
Apparently, there are more benefits to eating game than previously realised. Meats such as pheasant, partridge, venison and quail are not only low in cholesterol, but additionally have high levels of selenium. Selenium boosts the immune system, may have an anti-oxidant effect (good in helping to prevent cancers) and can elevate mood.
Bearing in mind that a glass or two of red wine per day is also thought to have its benefits, what better way to ward off the winter blues than to partake in a meal of game, washed down by a decent glass of claret?
I haven’t had breakfast yet…but I am already looking forward to dinner…
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Whither the Vocation?
In an increasingly consumerist society, the word vocation does not often appear in the context of everyday conversation.
The word derives from the Latin vocare, ‘to call’. It is defined as ‘a strong feeling of suitability for a particular career or occupation, especially one requiring dedication. As such, it has most often been applied to the professions and, most particularly, to the practise of medicine, the Church and other humanitarian pursuits.
Historically, a vocation has been seen as something which gives great satisfaction to the person pursuing it and equally great benefits to those on the receiving end of that person’s efforts. However, the implication has usually been that the rewards received in following a vocation are not so much pecuniary than an inner sense of fulfilment. This, of course, is precisely where the concept clashes with the modern consumerist society.
As a doctor, I am conscious of the changes which have come about over recent years in respect to the way General Medical Practitioners work. No longer do they have to be responsible for the well-being of their patients for twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week. The new GP Contract introduced a few years ago enabled GPs to opt out of ‘out of hours’ care, thereby freeing up their evenings and weekends. Of course, this was greeted with delight by the majority of GPs. We had never been properly paid for such work and now we had the opportunity to ‘have a real life’, being free to spend time with family and friends or develop other interests. Neither, of course, were we expected to work throughout the night and then go on to tackle full surgeries the following day in a state of near exhaustion.
However, I am also aware that the above welcomed changes in medical practice have brought with them a downside. Many patients will, of course, lament the passing of the twenty-four hour availability of their ‘own doctor’. However, there are downsides for the doctor as well. It was only when I was recently called on a Sunday morning by a good friend and neighbour who, living on his own, was unable to travel thirty miles to the nearest out-of-hours centre in his present poor state of health that I realised what I was missing. Having visited my friend, I was in the process of collecting some medication for him from an otherwise empty surgery in an otherwise empty market town centre, when it dawned upon me that I was actually enjoying that very process. Stopping to think about this revelation for a few moments, I realised that I missed the relative intimacy of caring for patients within their own homes, at odd times of the day and night, along with the concomitant sense of satisfaction that being able to assist someone in a time of need (for no particular personal gain other than that sense of worth) brings with it.
Summarised in one sentence, I was missing that very aspect of my work which engenders a sense of vocation.
Grayson Perry is a well known transvestite artist who, in 2003, won the Turner Prize for his work. As he was being interviewed by Melvyn Bragg on a recent episode of The South Bank Show, Perry came out with the comment “I define myself by my work.”
How true that statement must be for a great many of us.
I see a sense of vocation in many people around me and not least of all amongst those members who work, either salaried or on a volunteer basis, for the charity, The St John Ambulance. One often wonders what drives the volunteers to give up their free time, often for many hundreds of hours per year, to be available to render first aid at public events. It is the same factor which drives many of the salaried staff to put in many hours of unpaid overtime and to be prepared to give up their Christmas and New Year plans (as they were prepared to do at short notice recently) all with the aim of assisting their fellow man in need.
I believe that vocation is that sense of worth which makes our jobs, our lives and the immediate world in which we live, that extra bit special.
We do not have to be persistently driven by what is increasingly termed the disease of “affluency”. As is written in the Bible (Ephesians ch. 4, v. 1):
‘I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.’
One of my New Year resolutions is to re-focus on my personal sense of vocation. If you are finding your own life lacking that certain intangible factor that health, wealth and love otherwise fails to bring, then I would strongly urge you to do likewise. You may be pleasantly surprised by what you discover.
The word derives from the Latin vocare, ‘to call’. It is defined as ‘a strong feeling of suitability for a particular career or occupation, especially one requiring dedication. As such, it has most often been applied to the professions and, most particularly, to the practise of medicine, the Church and other humanitarian pursuits.
Historically, a vocation has been seen as something which gives great satisfaction to the person pursuing it and equally great benefits to those on the receiving end of that person’s efforts. However, the implication has usually been that the rewards received in following a vocation are not so much pecuniary than an inner sense of fulfilment. This, of course, is precisely where the concept clashes with the modern consumerist society.
As a doctor, I am conscious of the changes which have come about over recent years in respect to the way General Medical Practitioners work. No longer do they have to be responsible for the well-being of their patients for twenty-four hours per day, seven days per week. The new GP Contract introduced a few years ago enabled GPs to opt out of ‘out of hours’ care, thereby freeing up their evenings and weekends. Of course, this was greeted with delight by the majority of GPs. We had never been properly paid for such work and now we had the opportunity to ‘have a real life’, being free to spend time with family and friends or develop other interests. Neither, of course, were we expected to work throughout the night and then go on to tackle full surgeries the following day in a state of near exhaustion.
However, I am also aware that the above welcomed changes in medical practice have brought with them a downside. Many patients will, of course, lament the passing of the twenty-four hour availability of their ‘own doctor’. However, there are downsides for the doctor as well. It was only when I was recently called on a Sunday morning by a good friend and neighbour who, living on his own, was unable to travel thirty miles to the nearest out-of-hours centre in his present poor state of health that I realised what I was missing. Having visited my friend, I was in the process of collecting some medication for him from an otherwise empty surgery in an otherwise empty market town centre, when it dawned upon me that I was actually enjoying that very process. Stopping to think about this revelation for a few moments, I realised that I missed the relative intimacy of caring for patients within their own homes, at odd times of the day and night, along with the concomitant sense of satisfaction that being able to assist someone in a time of need (for no particular personal gain other than that sense of worth) brings with it.
Summarised in one sentence, I was missing that very aspect of my work which engenders a sense of vocation.
Grayson Perry is a well known transvestite artist who, in 2003, won the Turner Prize for his work. As he was being interviewed by Melvyn Bragg on a recent episode of The South Bank Show, Perry came out with the comment “I define myself by my work.”
How true that statement must be for a great many of us.
I see a sense of vocation in many people around me and not least of all amongst those members who work, either salaried or on a volunteer basis, for the charity, The St John Ambulance. One often wonders what drives the volunteers to give up their free time, often for many hundreds of hours per year, to be available to render first aid at public events. It is the same factor which drives many of the salaried staff to put in many hours of unpaid overtime and to be prepared to give up their Christmas and New Year plans (as they were prepared to do at short notice recently) all with the aim of assisting their fellow man in need.
I believe that vocation is that sense of worth which makes our jobs, our lives and the immediate world in which we live, that extra bit special.
We do not have to be persistently driven by what is increasingly termed the disease of “affluency”. As is written in the Bible (Ephesians ch. 4, v. 1):
‘I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.’
One of my New Year resolutions is to re-focus on my personal sense of vocation. If you are finding your own life lacking that certain intangible factor that health, wealth and love otherwise fails to bring, then I would strongly urge you to do likewise. You may be pleasantly surprised by what you discover.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Thought for the Day
It is almost one year since I started this blog. During that time some one hundred and forty two pieces have been posted and the site has attracted almost two thousand hits. Now, I accept that, compared to some blogs, two thousand is not a large number. However, I feel that such a number is a happy start. It is also rewarding to see that some readers stay for anywhere between 5 minutes and one hour, reading many pages at one sitting. I only wish more people would add a comment or two; feedback is always helpful and interesting to have, even if it is sometimes controversial.
The most recent problem has been finding the time to write for the blog. I do realise that writers are always making such excuses. However, I can assure you that it is true! I am reminded of a quote, although I am afraid that I cannot attribute it:
I'm just catching up with yesterday; by tomorrow I should be ready for today.
That just about sums up the current situation. However, one of the New Year's resolutions is to re-light the blogging candle. So, thank you for your interest and, in the words of a certain television programme, stay tuned...
The most recent problem has been finding the time to write for the blog. I do realise that writers are always making such excuses. However, I can assure you that it is true! I am reminded of a quote, although I am afraid that I cannot attribute it:
I'm just catching up with yesterday; by tomorrow I should be ready for today.
That just about sums up the current situation. However, one of the New Year's resolutions is to re-light the blogging candle. So, thank you for your interest and, in the words of a certain television programme, stay tuned...
Monday, January 01, 2007
Linguistic Leaders
According to an article by Michael Legat in a recent copy of the Writing Magazine (January 2007, Page 17), it is predicted that the English Language will soon contain one million words.
This compares to 100,000 words in the French language.
I will leave you to draw your own conclusions!
This compares to 100,000 words in the French language.
I will leave you to draw your own conclusions!
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