It’s not as long as “Hippopotomonstrosesquipadaliaphobia”
…which,ironically,is the medical term for the fear of long words…
wellIhaveanextremefearofhipposdoesthatcount?
So do I Gummy, try not to “Wallow” in it.
As soon as this batch of work is done, should be about another week, I’ll be taking a break meself.
Alright, I get the message, youz all have big ugly ears and don’t want to talk about them, no problem I can understand and sympathise with that. 
So I’ll get back to words and related subjects.
“In the late nineteenth century, a Polish oculist and linguist named Ludwik Lejzer Zamenhof set out to create a universal language that would promote peace and harmony among all the world’s inhabitants. … Dr. Zamenhof intended for Esperanto to be easy to learn and speak”
What a great idea and what a shame Esperanto never caught on, can you imagine going to all the trouble of creating a language (there are approx.180,000 thousand words in the English language) and nobody bothers to learn it, the poor chap must have died of frustration using foul language up to his last breath.
Irish was compulsory in all Irish schools when I was attending, I was never very good at it and was whacked many a time, I have to admit that put me off the Irish language for a very long time.
Two of my grandsons chose an all Irish speaking school to attend and picked the Irish up very quickly, they love speaking their own language with their school mates. Now the school has a great reputation and has a long waiting list for pupils of all nationalities.
Most of those who went to school with me know very little Irish today, like me they thought they would never leave school and forget all about the Irish language and the caning we got for not knowing it, so to me that proves that compulsory is the wrong way to go if you want someone to learn a language, you have to come up with a way of making them want to learn it.
I remember when Lady Chatterley’s Lover was banned over here, but you could get a copy of it printed in Gaelic, bugger that for a game of soldiers I says, I’ll stick with the Beano.
I love that Eagles Track, on the Hotel California Album, “Esperanto”.
I prefer JJ cale and EC with Escondido!
boxty on the grill
boxty in the pan
if ya can’t make a boxty
you’ll never get a man!
Potato cakes, me granny make them lovely Gummy, with a bit of finely chopped onion thrown in the mix.
Had to attend another funeral over the weekend, the daughters mother in law passed away, she lived in Dundalk, rest her kind soul, the dreaded Alzheimer’s thing again.
“In the midst of life we are in death” Said the Benedictine monk Notker way back in the 900’s, how true that is when you think about it, even in your own life you die several times. Take the boy that I once was, he’s long dead and buried now, so too is the youth and then the young man, not even a sign of the middle aged bloke either, vanished from the face of this earth. I often look in the mirror in the mornings and ask meself what is that old geezer doing in my face.
What’s that big word for creature changes, metamorphous? when the boy has to fade out to let the man take over and so on, yes indeed in the midst of life there is death.
Thankfully in the midst of death there are plenty of laughs at the wake too, the youngest sister of the dead woman was telling Phyllis and me that she never married, she got very close to it one time she said, her name is Janet and she was a very jolly woman, she said the chap she was going with was a decent enough man and he had asked her to marry him, she said she would think about it and let him know the following night. She talked about it with her father who knew the chap and he said to her “You know of course that his surname is Tillls don’t you? Do you realise that your marriage name will be Janet Tills? And that was the end of that, she swears the story is true.
An Old Lady’s Poem
-Anonymous
When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was felt that she had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health.
… And now this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this simple, yet eloquent, poem traveling the world by Internet. Goes to show that we all leave “SOME footprints in time”…
An Old Lady’s Poem
What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
What are you thinking when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice, “I do wish you’d try!”
Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
And forever is losing a stocking or shoe…
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill…
Is that what you’re thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse; you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of ten …with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now a lover she’ll meet.
A bride soon at twenty – my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
But my man’s beside me to see I don’t mourn.
At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
I look at the future, I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing young of their own,
And I think of the years and the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old woman …and nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
And now and again my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I’m loving and living life over again.
I think of the years …all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
…Not a crabby old woman; look closer …see ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within … We will one day be there, too!
Aint that the truth Lads,x
ah be jeezus !
What a great poem, I really enjoyed reading that, thanks May for posting it, God bless you, your a little angel.;-)
Speaking of angels.
The elders use to say that your guardian angel’s birthday is 40 days after you were christened, don’t know what the elders say in other religions, but I think we all have have one regardless of any religion. I know when I was born but not the date of my christening, that’s handy, never had to buy him/her/it a present, anyway what would you get? an CD of Paul McCartney and ‘Wings’
I always fancied my guardian angel to be a beautiful slim middle aged woman, not an inexperienced young dumb blond, experience is essential for the job, I don’t think I’d like to have a fella looking after me.
I imagine guardian angels to be related spirits, members of our deceased family who are assigned the job of protecting a living member of the family, whether that be as punishment because of some wrong doing while on earth, or as training for a promotion in the great beyond.
To me they are the ones who whisper in your ear when you have to make important decisions, they prod you into helping a beggar on the street with a few coins, tell you not to have that extra pint, when are you going to stop smoking, (I’m still waiting for the smokes to kill me, who said smokers die young) and stuff like that. On the other hand they could be you from a past life trying to help you not to make the same mistakes again, who knows, but I’m sure we are not alone as we walk through this life.
Whoever or whatever mine is it hasn’t failed me yet, after several scrapes with the grim reaper I’m still all in one piece. Yes I do believe in guardian angels, although I’d rather think of them as guardian spirits.
It would seem we are kept in fine fettle, until the time is right, bit like Pigs and Sheep.
keep ya guardian spririts - give me a bourbon any day - well 2 actually or perhaps three oh well go on then make it a lorry load!!
Ok Ok form an orderly queue I was here first - they are taking booking now!
Perhaps RJ has gone to South Africa?
[quote=“gumbud, post: 1162274”]
Ok Ok form an orderly queue I was here first - they are taking booking now!
Some might say some have all the luck, others might say God help him, if he had been a monk he would be laughing and saying to himself “Thank you Lord, all that fun and it wasn’t even a sin”
Seriously though, he could have been badly injured in the lower sentitive regions, not to mention the mental trauma if he was a gay man, I think the fact that he was a man will just cause laughter and envy and that will be the end of it.
It happens here in the Midlands, around Dudley, Darlaston, Lower Gornal etc, the blokes have to go round in pairs for safety, hence, they have become known as “Yam Yams”
If you remember I warned about those Yams before Gummy, young men should be very careful when a girl calls them “My sweet potato” If I was twenty years younger I’d be off to the Trobrian Islands like a shot singing “I am a Yam” but then the wife always said I was a glutton for punishment.
Quote “For example, one Australian man reported that he had been raped twice by gangs of Trobrian girls. It was a terrifying experience when it first happened but, after he got used to it, it was not so bad after all, he said”
God help him, me heart bleeds for him, but like they say a man can get used to anything given time, the yammy bugger.