Five Words Meme (i)

[caddyman]

I volunteered to do two of these. First come first served, so these are the five words suggested by smokingboot

Cheese
The food of Kings; I despair those misguided souls who profess to dislike its curdy charm almost as much as I pity the lactose intolerant who would devour this prince amongst foods if only it didn’t make their head swell up like a Zeppelin.

There is a cheese to go with any other foodstuff on the planet: I have held this view for many years and was once challenged (such impertinence) on that contention in this very journal. I believe I proved my point then (you may go back and check) and I rest my case.


Matron
Ooh, Matron. Uttered in affectionate parody of the late Kenneth Williams, I know of no other phrase that can convey the sense of the mischievous, bawdy, double entendre without risking offence. From the same cultural roots that gave us the British seaside postcard, with fat ladies, hen-pecked men, naughty children, ice creams and inappropriate melons.
Instantly recognisable, appropriately inappropriate, British as crumpets and tea, marvellously incorrect.


Writing
Writing is my gossip. I am terrible at gossip in the traditional sense, much to ellefurtle’s mild annoyance. I never pay attention to what people are discussing about other people and rapidly forget what little I do hear. Your secrets are safe with me because I never remember them.

On the other hand, my imagination is prone to flights of fancy that for years simply floated around my head and faded. I always liked the idea of a diary, but with a pen and paper, it never progressed beyond ‘woke up, had breakfast. Mucked about a bit. Went to bed. It rained somewhat’. For reasons unknown to me, the computer keyboard freed me from that and I can write on-line what I could never manage in ballpoint or quill.

The written word is where I moan, observe, generalise, exaggerate and think. My journal is where I pin my demons to the page and kill them; they cannot haunt me when they have been trapped on the screen.

One day I hope to write something of consequence; I have mentioned before that I like the idea of being a published author. Whether or not I have the stamina and/or self discipline remains to be seen.


England
Oh England, my Lionheart. It is not fashionable these days to be proud of where you live and where you come from. At least it’s not fashionable in this country. I have never been particularly fashionable and I have to say that on the whole that I am proud to be English. Maybe not as proud as I once was, mind. My England is the England of Miss Marple and Boy’s Own Adventure Stories; the land of cream teas and cricket, of endless summer holidays and rainy bank holidays. Bulldog Drummond and Dick Barton, Special Agent. I’m not sure it ever really existed, but it damn well should have.

Oh, yes. Pipes, raincoats and trilbies; scrumping for apples and cries of “Yarroo, you bounder!”


Ambling
Hands in pockets, sleeves rolled up, jacket thrown carelessly over your right shoulder, the newspaper carefully folded and carried under your left arm. A sunny day – Sunday afternoon, perhaps – the birds are singing in the trees, God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world. Scuffing your feet along the pavement, kicking up dust and bits of twig on the pavement. Nowhere important to go, no deadlines to meet.

Lunch in the pub, perhaps. A cold pint of beer.

Ambling. Enduring picture isn't it?