by Jac Dowling
This morning the Antarctic blew in through the window glass of my den, right next to what is generally known as my workstation, except it’s not. More of a repository for things to read or do or ignore. So, having opened the mails, I snuck back into a still warm bed and continued to read a particularly gory novel by the grown-up male part of JK Rowling. Gory it is. I’ll probably have nightmares for weeks, but never mind, things happen…
Having dealt with the chill, which, my phone told me, was 4oC, I remembered an incident with my first class of ten year olds, when they were encouraged to find a poem they liked, to do with winter. Most of them did very well, conscientiously memorising and sprouting forth as requested. Except for one small boy who announced that he was going to do a poem by William Shakespeare. My eyes lit up, Literacy at last. And then he began:
‘When bicycles hang on the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his blogs…
(ummm Sorry Miss, it’s something about logs and an owl…’)
‘Oh yes… and Joan kills an owl in a greasy pot.’
At which stage I thanked him for his efforts saying he was very brave to attempt Shakespeare. And he was. I never discovered what blowing his blogs meant, other than picturing a flock of exploding sheep and a shepherd in serious trouble. Wool and other things all over the moor. After all, how many different types of blog blowing can there be? Making a hash of your personal blog, unblocking a desperately coldy nose or – well, I’ll leave that to your imagination.
Having dealt with the severe chill, I waited for the sun to rise and warm things. Which it did and any hovering icicles no longer hung by the wall, nor did Dick the shepherd blow his nail or Greasy Joan keel the pot. Tom did not bear logs into the hall and Marion’s nose probably was very red and raw – depending on the degree of blog blowing of course.