What's in a Name III
Rosie. Rosy. Rosy cheeks, rosy lips. Bands of rosy hue? Rosy mind? Rose-tinted glasses? Not if I have anything to do with your upbringing, Watson!
Rosamund. Rose of the World. Shakespearean? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Maybe not; I've changed your nappies once or twice. Rosa mundi. Rosa mundi. Peccata mundi? No, delete, too much religion already. Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi? Perhaps not either, but at least that's a decent tune.
Rose. A perennial plant of the family Rosaceae, which also includes apple, plum, cherry, peach, pear apricot, almond and quince. A whole fruit bowl, Rosie. And a vase of many flowers: rowan, hawthorn and meadowsweet. But the rose is the queen, never forget that.
Rosehip, the fruit of the rose flower, rich in vitamin C and beta carotene, is traditionally made into jam, jelly, herbal tea, wine or even brandy. You are conducive to our health, Rosie, well, mostly. Rosehip can also be processed into itching powder, and I really don't know where I'm going with this.
My love is like a red, red rose. Robert Burns, very fine poet, dreadful womaniser. A bit like your father, I mean, he's not a poet, but he's a chaser of skirts, I'm afraid, so let's move on.
Rose. No other flower is so smothered with symbolism. Rose stands for love, for woman, for perfect beauty. For vanity. For hidden barbs. Rose stands for England. The Tudor Rose. Red for Lancaster, white for York. Sufi poetry. Rosary prayers. A single flower that represents the Virgin Mary as well as socialism. Rosa Parks? Rosa Luxemburg? Rose of Sharon? Rose of Jericho? I'm getting nowhere with all this muddle.
A rose is a rose is a rose.
Enough of this. Uncle Sherlock will be ordinary for once. Rosie, you sweet little blossom, my sunflower, my sweet pea, you brighten up my world.