A Constant Source of Disappointment

Away with words. A book featuring poetry by eleven to eighteen year olds from the counties here and abouts. And guess what? My polymathic eldest has a poem therein. He is, amongst other things, now a published poet. (He acknowledges it is a homage to Lear via Carroll. Allegorical, metaphorical and strucutred. My eldest is thriving at Big School.) Hurrah!

Then we have when my progeny think it quaint and old-fashioned in the manner of my speech. Turns-of-phrase that don't mean much outside of a ten mile radius of small Antrim villages. Sayings that seem, to them, to predate the ark. But today we had a pronounciation battle.

thesaurus –noun, a dictionary of synonyms and antonyms.

See me, I say th-esss-are-us, in my hurried Norn Iron lilt. See them, they say thugh-sore-us, in their (getting to be almost, but not quite, native) South Cambs singsong. This causes them much hilarity.

Of course, at least that word is just an amusement for them, there are times when they just don't understand what I am saying at all. Like most of youse, I guess.

As I sit here typing, the Wii (which I have rather unimaginatively nicknamed 'Our Wii') is on standby, but the CD slot is glowing a rather fetching ethereal blue, fading in and out, the way the wee light (ha! a pun!) on the front of Dahlia breathes in-and-out when she is in sleep mode. I presume it is one of Cassandra's friend's Miis. She sent herself outwards earlier (sending my Mii of choice, named 'evil mwk', probably wouldn't have been such a good idea), so we can see how this all works.

Maybe tomorrow I will try an old-fashioned StrayToaster post, of much rambling and no content, elongated and tortuous in structure. The just-stilted-paragraphs-of-my-life style isn't interesting me any more.