Ah, ye ole abandoned blog! So quiet in your solitude! So superb and magnificent while you wait, amongst the others who cry and wail in the forgotten wires of stretching across the vast valley and ridges of cyberspace! You remain, ever vigilant, ever hopeful.
Right then. Now that we’ve finished with that apology, on to your language fact of the day. No, we haven’t done a language fact of the day, and no, we’re not beginning a language fact of the day. I have decided not to let that concern me.
Ye. We see it often: Ye Ole Curiousity Shop (which is, or used to be, maybe ever will be, in Seattle and probably countless other cities); Ye Ole King’s Head (Santa Monica, CA. Lovely fish and chips); Ye Ole … Actually, I think I’ll let you fill in the blank at this point. The examples are, though not endless, endless. When I was small, I always thought that “ye” was just how people used to say “the” in the Middle Ages or at least eighteenth century pirates in the Caribbean (Ye be ye daughter of ye gov’nor, aye?). However, in truth, “ye” was never the way anyone said “the”. It was the way they wrote “the”. Yes indeed, our use of the word “ye” dates from the sixteenth century and is an alteration of the Old English þ, or “thorn” which was in fact pronounced something like “th”. Thus, “ye” is really the function of a misunderstanding of a font. My darling husband is utterly sick of me mentioning this little bit of linguistic history. Perhaps actually writing it down and posting it will remove some of the desire I have every time I see it.
Now back to topic. We’ve been away from the blog for awhile now, ahem, almost two months for some of us who shall remain unnamed. What can I say? It was the holiday season. When I look back on it, the last two months don’t strike me as that busy. However, something about the holidays makes everything more urgent, doesn’t it? “I have so many days to finish my holiday shopping which means if I ever want to sit down and read my book, I must do it right this minute. And the next minute, and the minute after that because who knows when I’ll have another chance? Now where did I put that port that so-and-so sent us. . . .” And so goes the evening, and the next, and the next.
To be brief in the recap, we had a lovely holiday. My dad came to town (photos to be posted), and we visited all the museums and cultural hot spots on my mental list. National museums in Dublin are free. Nice, yeah? I’ve decided to visit the National Gallery, conveniently located just a few blocks away, once a week or so. Of course, I haven’t been back since, but really, I’m going to start going! It has a lovely coffee area perfect for escaping the apartment for a change of writing scene! Any day now….
We wandered around the old English barracks, museums, bookstores, a castle, and a cemetery with our necks trying to scrunch deeper into our scarves, hands shoved in gloves and more gloves and pockets, and with a stiff gait to stay upright. Everyone here told us snow doesn’t happen in Dublin. Dublin is never really that cold. You won’t need more than a lining in a rain coat. Yeah, whatever. Not only did it snow, but it was windy. Tá sé gaofar! Tá sé an-gaofar! No one mentioned the freaking wind. One day, not long before New Years, Dad and I decided walk to the Luas, one of the light rails, to visit the National Museum of Decorative Arts and History. The Luas is only about a fifteen minute walk from my apartment. However, after the wind had trashed my umbrella, one of our good ones, and then caught my coat and pulled me a few good steps backwards, not just bringing me to a stop, but actually backwards, as the rain pelted me in the face, Dad said, “Are you sure you want to do this today?” I was already turned when I said, “I’ll meet you at home.” If you stood just right on the ice, the wind could sweep you along it with no effort on your part but for a little arm swinging to stay on your feet rather than your ass. Oh yeah! Dublin in the winter! And all of you in truly cold climates, stop laughing at me.
Really, though, we had a great holiday. I even bought Scott a live Christmas tree. I thought we would donate it to a park or something after the New Year. He’s adopted it and every time I mention donating it or that maybe, just maybe we can’t move it to London, his eyes go kind of big and he says, “But isn’t it going to be our Christmas tree in London?” Now, in addition to finding us an apartment as good as the one we have in Dublin, I apparently need to find one where we can take a small but growing evergreen. I think a dog might have been easier.
