Strandpiel 22: Die Siterspeler, the Minstrel
How dual nationality works out for one proud user.
Currently embuggered by loads of ideas and very little time to commit to record because of the demands of a new job. LOTS of ideas for continuing old stories ("Many worlds", et c) and barely enough time to sketch them out for retrieval later. Building skeletons, basically.
A series of episodes and glimpses into the later life of a new character. Readers do appear to want to find out more about her. Trying to keep everything in roughly chronological and sequential order with lots of call-backs and flashbacks to related tales in the ongoing saga. Go to my archive and read. You know you want to.
Might be the last one for some time as I return to earning a living soon. Damn. I was enjoying time off with sufficient cash in the bank to make it feel good as the pain and discomfort ebbed. Still. Needs must.
Put together out of a need to keep the tale moving forwards. Lots sketched out, too little time to write. More will follow. Apologies if this looks a little bit scrappy and rushed – what should have been two short opening scenes ran away with me and a brand new character, with a lot of potential of her own, leapt in from nowhere. These things happen. together with short laconics for coming scenes yet, or soon, to be written.
Pork Scratching, Lancre.
A meeting in the woods; dinner at the Castle.
Bekki found herself walking in the woods near Lancre Town, her valenki overboots crunching in the snow. She had a very rare hour or so of time to herself, as she was not expected at Nanny Ogg's before two She was to go to a reception at the Castle later, apparently; Queen Magrat wanted to meet some of the new young Witches, and you didn't refuse a Royal command. But for now this was private time, time to herself, and was getting to know the woodland paths around Lancre Town, learning to read the carved symbols in the treetrunks that acted as trail markers for people potentially lost in the snow. She shrugged. Assassins used similar markings, although more discreet and hidden in places where only people who knew where to look would find them. Her mother had given her a bit of basic instruction one day. This was pretty much the same code. If you scraped the snow away at about shoulder-height on a tree, you might find, after some groping, a carved arrow and a number of finger-deep dots. These and simple modifiers denoted things like homestead, two hundred yards this way, or farm, half a mile this way, or Lancre Town one mile away in this direction. And once you found one and followed the arrow, you knew, more-or-less-exactly a hundred paces away, there'd be the next. It was a simple system that had evolved over centuries, and everybody in Lancre knew it. She'd asked about it in the autumn, when men like Refinery Ellesmere and Consistency Congleton (1) had been out with sharp knives and chisels, renewing the markers for winter.
Bekki had also trekked the Veldt with people like her mother and Auntie Mariella. Auntie Mariella had shown her how to orientate yourself in a seemingly unhelpful landscape miles from anywhere. This was like the Veldt, only with trees and about a foot of snow. The same principles applied. You just had to adapt to local conditions. Besides, people had trampled down the snow on the footpaths. Fresh snow was filling their paths, admittedly, but the passage of other people could still be read. She could also identify the fairly recent passage of a small family of wolves. Nothing to worry about. She was, after all, a Witch. And she knew from the Zoo that wolves who could find other food didn't bother with humans. The snow was streaked brown-red with deep dragging marks, indicating the wolves had made a kill here and dragged it off somewhere. Deer, probably. So the pack had fed.
And, most reassuringly at all, she was carrying her broomstick, slung over one shoulder. If she really got lost, she could fly above the trees and get a bearing that way.
Bekki crunched on, feeling cosy in the Far Überwaldean winter clothing, her breath condensing in the air, appreciating the day. It was nice to be on her own with nobody making demands on her. Time to be. And she was flying home for Hogswatch soon. Well. Not even flying. Kelda Peigi, of the local Feegle clan nearby to Pork Scratching, had made herself known to the new Witch and begged a favour, Kelda to Witch. There was one of her sons, a good boy but with a head full of dreams, whose ambition was to become a Navigator with the Pegasus Service. This, you ken, was a prestigious thing for a young Feegle, and there was much competition. Only the best became Pegasus Navigators. Would ye, Rebecka, consent to giving my boy some practice at the crawstepping, for him to lead you to Ankh-Morpork and back to your kin for Hogswatch? A practical test of his ability? I will send him with his instructor in the crawstep, the Gonnagle who is teaching him the craft secrets of making the Step.
Bekki, seeing the advantages of practically instantaneous travel that cut out up to twelve hours by train or broomstick, had agreed instantly. She thought a trainee Feegle navigator under instruction would be really convenient, and would pose no problems. And she looked forward to seeing her family again for the first time since September. Four months was a long time. Bekki tramped happily on. And then she registered movement in the trees nearby. Multi-coloured movement, a flash of many colours that stood out against the white. Snow tended to make a world monochrome. The impression of moving red and green, stark primary colours, was unmistakeable. Anyone could have spotted it.
Bekki stood and allowed the world to flow past her, looking for peripheral movement in the margins of her visual field. Then she got it.
She called a cheerful hello, reckoning that somebody dressed that colourfully and who stood out like a lantern on a dark night was not out there for any sinister reason. Then the jester emerged. She sighed. Bekki had seen people from the Fools' Guild back in Ankh-Morpork and had been torn between appalled fascination and head-shaking pity. It still appalled her that people her age or younger had been sent to school at the Fools and Clowns. To her mind, it was a sort of child neglect and cruelty. She felt sorry for them. She'd seen the hang-dog, slumped-shoulders misery of the typical student Fool. She thanked the Gods her education had been at Seven-Handed Sek's: some alternatives were just too grim to contemplate.
But there was something different here. This jester wore the motley, yes. Particolour red and green. With, she now registered, some bells. But the jester was standing with shoulders straight and head high. The clothing looked good on this jester, somehow right. And this jester was smiling in a happy way. Unforced, general, happiness, as if everything in this jester's world was just peachy. The jester also carried a musical instrument. Several, in fact. And this jester was also...
"Hi!" the jester said. "Sorry if I startled you. Although I don't think I did. You're the new young witch from up at Pork Scratching, aren't you? Pleased to meet you. I came out here to find a quiet place to practice. You'd be surprised how few really quiet private places there are at the Castle, where everybody's a music critic. Not what you want when you're rehearsing."
They clasped hands. Bekki introduced herself.
"Pleased. I'm Alison, by the way. Court Jester, Fool and Minstrel-in-Residence to King Verence."
Bekki blinked. She realised she was looking at a young woman, at most in her early twenties, who wore the motley with a sort of assured style, and some grace, as if she was born to it.
"Err... I didn't realise there were such things as women fools." Bekki said, politely. "I thought it was all men."
Alison Grosse grinned.
"Common misconception." Alison said. "The Guild hasn't been taking girl students for all that long and there still aren't that many of us. Do you sing or play any instruments, by the way? Know any good songs? I'm looking for the sort of things I could build into the act. Comic songs would be good. You know. Funny comic songs. The ones the Guild doesn't teach."
They walked on together. Bekki politely asked if Alison didn't feel cold?
The Court Jester shrugged.
"Good thermals. Got the idea from the monks up towards the Hub. Spent my Gap Year touring, by the way. Sang for my supper. When people got past the motley and realised I can actually sing a bit and play my instruments – and that I can do a good performance despite having graduated from the Fools' School - I always got a bed for the night and a square meal. And some money, sometimes."
Bekki found out more about the new Fools' Guild. It sounded interesting.
"If you're who I think you are, your mother helped. When the reforms started happening, not quite twenty years ago." Alison said.
"Yes. Mum's never explained to me how she came to be a Fools' Guild member."
"She got to be one of the first. You know. Lady Fools. She and a group from the Thieves and the Assassins. Just to make the point. We owe them a lot."
Bekki then heard an account of the Monstrous Circus and the War in Clowndom that followed it. (2) Her mother had indeed been involved.
"So the first girls in the guild were studying for either circus skills or else to be Dorises to conjurors and knife throwers." Alison explained. "That's how I started. But they relaxed the rules a little, and allowed us to study for minor credits in other disciplines. I can walk tightropes and do trapeze. That was my major. Love doing it. But I also got to study Jestering and Troubador Skills. They told me this was only to round me out and for interest, and they wouldn't let me actually perform anywhere as a Minstrel or a Jester. Or else the Jolly Good Pals would inflict some equal-opportunities punishment."
Alison Grosse made a face.
"Fortunately, King Verence of Lancre got to hear of the strange case of the girl who wanted to be a Jester and a Troubador. He wrote to Doctor Whiteface and said his court needed a Jester. And in his opinion a woman Jester couldn't be any worse than a man, and might even be better at it. And they couldn't refuse a King. So here I am. Licenced to practice, and it's great!"
Her face split with a grin of real happiness. It was infectious. Bekki decided she liked this woman.
Alison smiled at her.
"Know any good songs?" she asked. "Funny ones, don't need to be subtle. Not to this audience. And even the Hedgehog Song loses it a bit, after you've heard it three hundred times."
Bekki thought. Then she grinned.
"Well. There's the kind of thing my Uncle Danie sings. With the bros from his fifteen-a-side team. I'm not meant to know the words, and certainly not what they mean. But there's the one about Auntie Tina..."
After a while, they started to refine the lyrics into a Morporkian translation. With hand gestures. The two walked on together, whooping and laughing.
Her name is Tina van Wyk,
Good taste and class have passed her by,
And she wears a big, fake, Jools-The-Model wig!(3)
After a while, Bekki suggested a version of the Stukkie van der Merwe song, concerning the unfortunate Mr van der Merwe, and why his leisure activities made him stand out. It was a fairly new one in the Springboeks' after-match repertoire. Her sister Famke had written to her and quoted a verse or two and the chorus. Knowing the sort of tunes Uncle Danie and the bros liked, it han't been difficult at all for Bekki to deduce the right music to sing it to.
Then they moved to some traditional Sto Plains folk songs of various sorts. Bekki sat and listened to Alison accompaning herself on fiddle or mandolin. She really was quite good... after a while, Bekki joined in, at least on the choruses.
Let never a man a wooing wend
That lacketh things three,
A store of gold, and open heart,
And full of charity;
And this was seen of King Verence
Though he lay quite alone,
For he's taken him to a haunted hall
Seven miles from the town. (4)
"Not the current King Verence." Alison clarified. "The previous one. The one before Felmet, the pretender king. Do you know, it's funny how after a few years these things take on a life of their own? Lots of people still remember the old King, and were alive when he was, and met him personally. But there are a lot of myths starting about him. Things which never happened, and concerning which anyone around at the time could say "Whoa, hold on, that's not true, I was there!" Folk stories, things that only ever happened in people's imaginations. But they get to be more real than what was actually real, if you follow me. "
Bekki listened. The song told of how King Verence I had lifted the curse from a hideous monster and taken away the witch's curse that had turned her from beautiful woman to hideous beast. To do this, apparently, Verence had needed to... ugggh...
"Stretching it a bit." Alison admitted. "The old King Verence would apparently shag anything that moved. That's not folklore, that's fact. And the only witch with the power to do anything like that isn't around any more, they say. Which makes it almost safe to sing. Hey, you've got to be edgy with your songs. Kind of topical too, with new material. What do you think?"
"And a song about a King Verence who was renowned for doing certain things." Bekki said, slowly. "Performed in front of a King Verence who actually isn't the same King Verence. But people are going to listen and thing it's the same Verence. Who got practically raped by a hideous she-monster in the woods. Performed in front of Queen Magrat, who with the best will in the world is not renowned for being beautiful. Yes. Edgy."
Alison smiled.
"Guild charter." she said. "You're a Jester. You are expected to take the piss a bit. You get a licence to. Verence and Magrat know that well enough. Nice people, by the way. You'll like them."
And Alison actually moved and stood normally, Bekki thought. No crouching, no capering, no pratfalling. She walked and moved like a normal person. More of a lithe athletic spring in her step than most people, admittedly, but a perfectly normal human being who just happened to look good in her Fool's rig. Which, Bekki realised, was not Fool-standard: she combined the particolour of a Jester with the dash of a Troubador, having seemingly taken a look at the uniform requirements for each class of Fool, and having mixed-and-matched the best. The result, incredibly, had style and attractiveness to it. Bekki began to realise why the Fools' Guild had exiled her to Lancre: it didn't want this sort of thing catching on. They want to be seen to be more liberal. So they can't punish one of their few girl graduates for being dangerously innovative.. Not easily anyway. That's what this War in Clowndom was all about – the side that won doesn't want to be seen becoming the side that lost, the side that wanted old-time repression. And King Verence is a Guild graduate with influence on their ruling committee, what do they call it, the Council of Mirth or something. He asks for her. They put her out of sight, out of mind. And here she gets freedom to develop Clowning and things in her own way...
Bekki stored these thoughts for reflection later. They walked on in the forest, Bekki coaching the minstrel in a couple of Vondalaans' childrens' songs, nice simple sing-along catchy things. She'd grown up on them when much tinier.
Jy met jou mandolientjie,
Ek met my bandolientjie,
Sing ons die Oukraallietjie saam!
Sing ons van Waterstrome,
Slange in Olienshotsbome,
En n'ribbok wat daar teen rantjie staan! (5)
They moved back towards Lancre Town, sharing songs, sketching out Morporkian words that roughly translated and which fitted metre and scansion, the minstrel strumming her mandolin. Bekki had to meet up with the others at Nanny Ogg's; Alison to return to the Castle. But they'd see each other again that evening. Bekki started to look forward to her Royal Audience. The entertainment promised to be interesting.
Bitterfontein, RH: on the campaign trail.
The Candidate and his entourage: the Ladies' Committee and his Assassin bodyguard.
Bitterfontein is a city, or to be more scrupulously accurate, a large town, in the heart of agricultural country in the Caarp Province, a favoured part of the Howondalandian continent with clement winters and long warm summers. It is a long way from the restive and somewhat turbulent frontiers of Rimwards Howondaland, where farmers are forever watching to see what the neighbours are doing and who routinely go armed, just in case. Life is easier here and more settled. Less people carry weapons openly, and it is not unknown for a farmer to go about his business having left crossbow and sword in the weapon-rack at home, only bringing them out if there is a definite need.
Bitterfontein itself, named for its natural saline springs that need serious filtration if they are to be drunk by people (but which a local enterprising streak advertises as a sovereign healing remedy against practically every malady ever) is the administrative centre for six smaller villages - Kliprand, Molsvlei, Nuwerus, Putsekloof, Rietpoort and Stofkraal, and the farming communities that surround them. There are native townships too, but it is agreed by people in a position to do the agreeing that these do not really count. Higher up in the low foothills of the Sandrift, the land is attractively reshaped into terraces and grapes are grown, the foundation of a thriving local viniculture. The Orange River, named for the colour it picks up from sandstone bluffs and the rich red earth, makes its way to the Turnwise Sea, where boating and fishing go on as they have done for as long as humans have lived here. Those first immigrants here from the Central Continent only needed to Trek for a little way. Those Boers decided they had done all the trekking they ever needed to do, dankie, and left the longer journeys to those who came after. In consequence their attitude to life is more relaxed and laid-back, and possibly less attitudinal, than that of those who braved what is now the nation's long unpeaceful border. The word justnow could be the unofficial motto of Bitterfontein and the Turnwise Caarp, in fact.
The ethnic mix is approximately fifty-five per cent Morporkian-speaking to forty-five per cent Vondalaander here. There are lots of Xhosa-speaking blacks too, but, as everybody knows, they don't count. Morporkian and Vondalaander rub on in a sort of working harmony and even get on, with lots of friendships and even the odd mixed marriage across the divide. But at election time, old rivalries and memories emerge and the two white tribes, in a strictly non-armed and non let's-refight-the-War-here sort of way, coalesce around older loyalties and banners. (6)
Today, in the town square at Bitterfontein, one of the candidates for election was making his pitch for votes. People had drifted in, out of interest and in the ever-present need, in sleepy agricultural communities, for entertainment. They were all keen to see what this fellow had to offer them, the outsider from the big city who was hopefully standing here. Normally elections here had no surprises. The Morporkian Party candidate had consistently won for thirty years. Oh, he was okay, in his way, and insofar as he bothered, had represented Morporkian and Vondalaander alike in a competent enough way. You had to, where the two ethnicities were fairly evenly divided and they all had votes. But now he was standing down, and the seat in the Volksraad was open. All three parties had put men up, knowing a handful of votes could swing it one way or the other. Or, as people were beginning to concede, in the third direction. The unfavoured National Unity Party had put a big-name candidate out here. He was based locally, at a vineyard out in the Sandrift country where relatives owned the plaas, and had been diligent in getting out and about pressing the flesh. People who'd met him said he was a bright decent fellow with enthusiasm and good ideas and, well, on the day, you never know, he might even be good for this place.
And today, in the December sunshine, a week before the election, several hundred people had gathered in the square to attend a rally by the NUP's candidate. It was a pleasant day, there was a mood of expectancy, and the usual sort of hot-food sellers had gathered to service the crowd. A podium had even been erected bearing the NUP party colours, and several obvious campaign workers were gathered around it. They were polite, approachable, and reassured those who asked that while Mr Smith-Rhodes was running, unavoidably, a little bit late, he would be here soon to address them. While you're waiting, we can offer you a complimentary glass of fruit juice, white or red grape? Not the final fermented product, alas, but very freshly pressed, from the Lensen vinery... we also have lemonade. Lime? Orange?
Black servants were on hand to fill and retrieve glasses. On a warm day, a cool drink was very welcome indeed whilst waiting on the candidate.
And then he was arriving. People craned to look. And were impressed.
Julian Smith-Rhodes was tall and red-haired, a good-looking man who had kept boyish good looks well into his thirties. He was impeccably dressed in a formal suit with, as those closest to him could attest, the discret lapel ribbons advertising that during military service he had won the blue ribbon of the Howondaland Star in Gold for extreme bravery in combat. As well as the Pro Vertute for inspriational leadership of men in battle. Not the medals themselves – they were only for wear with uniform - but the permitted ribbons, thought appropriate for civilian wear. Practically every man in his audience had been in uniform. They knew what it took to earn those ribbons. So he wasn't just a rich kid looking for a leg-up into politics, then.
I heard he got the Gold Star for fighting the Matabels. Then a year or two later, he led the defence of an Embassy that was under attack...
And as Julian advanced to the podium, shaking hands and exchanging words with those who got close enough, even addressing several Bitterfontein citizens by name, those craning their necks to see took note of his entourage. That tall blonde man, dressed all in black, visibly armed... a good-looking chap, a bro, but obviously deferential to Mr Smith-Rhodes. Ag. That's an Ankh-Morpork trained Assassin. Has to be. And watching the crowd, alert, scanning. So if Mr Smith-Rhodes has had to hire an Assassin as bodyguard, somebody to diplomatically move people on when they've had enough of a handshake. That costs. You only do that if there's a threat on your life. So people want to kill this fellow and the assassin is there to guard? Jislaik, that shows he's important, then... only important people draw death threats.
And the rest of the immediate entourage were female. This did not go un-noticed either.
Damn, he's surrounded himself with some damn fine looking women. Lucky bastard. The one nearest to him has to be his wife, the diamond heiress. Worth millions. And she's not faking the affection for him. On top of that she's a beauty. Ag, how can one man get it all like this? And the red-haired one. Looks vaguely like she might be family. I'll have to ask, but isn't she to do with a vineyard over in the Sandrift? That redhead's a doll too. She moves... and then the dark woman. Not especially tall but walking proof of all the best things coming in small parcels. Beautiful. She looks foreign, somehow. And she's fond of him too, you can tell...
A war hero, important enough to have an Assassin as bodyguard, who could surround himself with attractive women. This was the sort of thing that drew attention. And a sort of wry approval. A fellow who could draw women like that must have something going for him.
Julian Smith-Rhodes, surrounded by his adoring womenfolk, took the podium and spoke. It was not lost that he was equally fluent in both Vondalaans and Morporkian and used both. With a bit of a harsh Transvaal accent he'd picked up sometime, admittedly, but the boy's good. What he'd actually said didn't matter so much. Afterwards most listeners agreed he'd just spoken about the NUP's portfolio of promises, what it stood for, and how it would affect Bitterfontein. It was the impression he'd left. Julian Smith-Rhodes, people agreed, was a man worth voting for. Maybe time to give the third party a chance.
Afterwards, their wives gathered at a function in a local hotel, in its best room, all flattered they'd been invited. It was hosted by the striking-looking red-haired woman who'd been attentive at Julian's side during the rally, clearly supporting and admiring him in public. The Bitterfontein woman knew her: she'd become a local person after marriage, supporting her husband in helping to turn round a formerly strtuggling vineyard and winery and making it into one of the most profitable businesses locally. She wasn't yet the mevrou there – that place of prominence belonged to her mother-in-law, who was also present here – but she was the young mevrou, the mevrou-in-waiting, taking over more and more of the daily management of the plaas with her husband's mother's support and approval. And she came from a good Boer family out on the border, something the women here approved of – definitely one of us.
And she was attentive, seeing everybody got a drink, asking after husbands, sons, daughters, the health of the crop, the wellbeing of livestock, the smalltalk of Boer life.
A little later, she spoke about Julian, about having known him since she was thirteen, about the man he was, and how she thought he was a good man with just enough of a streak of bliksemheid to make him interesting. This drew appreciative laughter.
She also said that while it was true that women did not – yet – have the vote, everybody here was married to or otherwise related to men who did. Think of it in terms of the vote not being just your husband's. They cast that vote for you too. And your children. To have a say in how our nation is run and how men are elected whose decisions affect us all. Why, she personally intended to ensure her husband, not a complete idiot or I would not have married him, casts what is not just his vote – it's our family vote - for Julian Smith-Rhodes. You can do that too, ladies. Speak to them. Ensure your thoughts and opinions are taken into account. Your husband votes for you too. Put this eminently fair and reasonable point of view to them tonight, and every day, till next Thursday.
Then, her points having been made, Mariella Smith-Rhodes-Lensen, who had been trained in Political Theory and Practice by Lady T'Malia, sat among friends and neighbours and had a drink. After a while, she met up with her old friend Rivka ben-Divorah, who, on a visit to her old schoolfriend, had agreed to make up the numbers and provide more discreet security while all eyes were on the obvious Assassin bodyguard.
"Wish you'd let me fake an assassination attempt." Rivka grumbled. "So easy to stage, and something for the newspapers to get on the front pages. People think if he's important enough to try to kill, he's our man. Result, more votes."
Julian had put his foot down on that one. As Mariella pointed out, men got nervous at the idea of Rivka pointing weapons at them. For some reason.
"Besides, could have gone wrong. Embarrassing."
Rivka shrugged.
"Your country." she said. Then she changed the subject.
"What are you doing for Hogswatch?"
"Got to go to the parents. Their turn this year. You'd be welcome." Mariella said. "You know how it is. A week of Mother demanding to know why there aren't any kids yet. Can you imagine? I'm only just getting used to being married to the bliksem. Actually having his children is not something I want to consider justnow."
Rivka expressed agreement. Then she said "Shall we go and find Chloe? Carry on re-educating her?"
Mariella nodded assent.
The two old friends walked on together.
And a little over a week later, Julian Smith-Rhodes was elected to the nation's Parliament.
To be continued
(1) Another of those placenames from Cheshire, England. Interestingly enough, Congleton, Cheshire, is also known as "Bear Town", as it claims to be the place where the last native wild bear in England was hunted and killed sometime in the 1700's. As if that's anything to be proud of. There's also a Woolpit in Suffolk that claims the same for the last native English wolf.
(2) Yes. I know.
(3) The hand gestures at this point certainly indicated that a part of the body, or rather two parts, were totally fake. But the hands were not pointing at the head. Oh, dear me, no.
(4) An old English ballad performed by folk-rock band Steeleye Span – a Terry Pratchett favourite – as "King Henry". All traditional folk songs were new once and had to be written by somebody…
(5) It's an ear-worm. Believe me. You soon pick it up when sung. Basically, with my little banjo and your little mandolin, the world is our edible mollusc of choice and we can go anywhere.
(6) Yup. Started with a real place and embellished it a bit and played with local geography to see what emerged. If anyone from the real Bitterfontein reads this – it sounds like a lovely place. I've taken your town and given it a Discworld makeover for the purpose of plot and humour. So… no real people are being worked over and your town, or a multiversal aspect of it, is being used as a plot location. Blame it on the example of what Tom Sharpe did to Pietermauritzburg when he turned it into Piemberg for his books?
Laconic notes for the next few scenes:
Pork Scratching, Lancre.
Bekki winds down prior to flying home – her eventful flight
Ankh-Morpork, Hogswatch week
Shauna's Gang reconvenes. Happy home for the holidays.
Bitterfontein, RH and Hartenbos, RH: A new politician is inducted to office.
Julian Smith-Rhodes as a Volksraad Representative. Pieter van der Graaf comes out of retirement.
Pork Scratching, and Lancre
Problems with the winter crop – Apricity B comes into her own as a witch. Davinia B adds expertise.
The Chalk
Sheep, sheep and more sheep. Mainly lambs. And a bit of cheese.
To be continued
Notes Dump:
Somewhere in a sea roughly halfway between two continents, the one of the tale being currently written and the semi-glimpsed one of future tales yet to be committed to paper, where isolated ideas are given lifebelts and a signal rocket against being spotted and rescued.
Lovely one – is this Dutch/Flemish? Houppelande – saving for last but not least! My personal favourite word of all time, or at least for today. It means cloak and was used in the medieval days. I mean, how much cooler does it sound then to say where's my houppelande? Or even the grandiose imaginative picture of swinging your houppelande about you as you take your leave, head held high. I just love that word so much!
Hot damn. Just out of interest I did an Internet search on the name "Johanna Smith-Rhodes" and guess what – there are two people of this name in the same place in the SW United States who, by inference, may be mother and daughter. Apart from state and home town and some other bits of stuff gleaned from publicly accessible information which I will not disclose here, that's all I know… it appears both JSR's may have a presence on social media…. what can I say apart from "any resemblance to people living or dead is completely coincidental…" et c…. found her on FB (where she goes, in the main, by a different name – but still a JSR), or at least somebody who corresponds to information found elsewhere. Over and above that I have absolutely no desire or intention to "stalk". But if the real Johanna Smith-Rhodes in the USA – either of her - ever reads these tales… I hope you appreciate your fictional alter ego. Thank you!
There does not, apparently, appear to be a real Alice Band out there anywhere. Good. Don't want her turning up to complain or offer literary criticism. Besides, if there is, she can blame Terry Pratchett as he devised the name and sketched out the character… all I did was to flesh TP's character out a bit. JSR is, however, 99.9% my character based on just one line of TP. The other JSR is 100% my creation, albeit that "Joan Sanderson-Reeves" is rooted in a very English character actress called Joan Sanderson, who played fearsome battle-axe characters in late middle age who were of a certain cut-glass social standing. Her best, or most memorable, role is the selectively deaf old lady who made Basil Fawlty's life even more of a Hell in Fawlty Towers. But my JSR, who could in many ways be related, is very much not deaf…
A commentator on the BBC this morning mis-pronounced "animatronics" as "enematronics". This brings some strange pictures to the screen of an active imagination…
Looking up Scottish female names for Feegle Keldas. A random sampling of some beauties:
Nighean This name means young woman
Nighinn Variation of the name Nighean
Nora Female form of the name Norman
Oighrig Possibly means speckled one
Peigi Scottish name for Peggy
Raoghnailt Means ewe (famale lamb)
Rhona Origin unknown