In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Observation

1. (noun – pronunciation note: ob-serve-a-ton) Obstetrician’s plate at an eat all you can buffet.
   Example: Dr Smith balanced a profiterole on top of her observation to the amazement of colleagues.
2. (noun – pronunciation note: ob-survey-shun) The exclusion of obstetricians from opinion polls.
   Example: Due to observation, Dr Smith was not asked to fill in the questionnaire.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

The village bus used to run twice daily. Most days the bus was half-full. Then, to save money, it was made twice weekly – in one direction on Monday morning and back again on Thursday morning. Which was no good for anyone.

A year later they stopped it.

The Councillor gave me his vague political smile.

“We would reopen the bus service, but there is no demand. No one used it. If people wanted a bus service they’d have used it.” 

Irrefutable logic.

Then he got in his Mercedes and drove off.

Marie Antionette would have been so proud of him.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Saturnine

1. (proper noun, pronunciation note: sat-urn-nine) Godling from Roman mythology, ninth son of the god Sat (the deity charged with the welfare of pottery and pot makers) often pictured decorating an urn.
   Example: Saturnine could be seen in the fresco decorating his father’s urn.
2. (noun, pronunciation note: satyr-nine) A very persistent German-speaking man who insists on propositioning women even after they have refused him.
   Example: She left the nightclub when a saturnine turned up.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

This morning followed I my nose
As it led a merry dance
My feet they went where’re it chose
My eyes took ne’er a glance
The scents of life my heart did feel
My ears did hear its song
I’ll never see a day more real
If my life be a hundred times long

jane jago 2023

The door slammed shut behind him and the solid sound of bolts shooting home followed, reinforcing the sense of finality. The room was a depressing dull grey from ceiling to floor. It was square with two beds, bunks, running the full length of one sidewall and essential facilities in the far corner. Zero privacy from either his cellmate or, through the door hatch, from the custodius. Above the door a vent the size of his fist was vibrating with an annoying humming-whine as it reluctantly circulated fresh air.
“Llewellyn? What did they drag you in here for? Sticking your nose too deep in someone else’s business?”
The voice was vaguely familiar, though Dai was slow to place it as the shaven head of the man sprawled on the lower bunk was not. His puzzlement must have shown because the man swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up.
“I don’t suppose you remember me. It was some months ago and I’m sure you’ve been a busy Submagistratus since then.”
“I’m sorry, but I really don’t…”
The other man laughed, which turned into a cough part way before he was able to speak again. “Gods! Politeness. Not heard a word of that since they locked me in here.” He pushed himself to his feet and straightened the green tunic, before offering a formal greeting. “Tertius Cloelius Rufus. It is an honour to share my captivity with you. A pleasure. You may recall we met in Viriconium before these unfortunate events.”
Dai found himself shaking the outheld hand as if they were at a social event or meeting, as his memory searched desperately for the name and face. When it came, he snatched his hand away and stepped back involuntarily.
“You were the cunnus of a medicus involved with a group holding vicious sex parties that led to the death of young streetgirls.”
“No need to use titles here,” the older man said brightly and then smiled at his own joke. “You can call me Rufus. It’ll make a change from seven-eight-one-one-two-six. It’s those little things you get to miss the most in this place. By the way, I hope you’re not hungry, you missed the evening meal. Nothing til tomorrow now.”
Dai felt a curl of cold revulsion in his guts.
“You disgust me.“
“Really?” Cloelius sounded unconcerned. “At least I’m not a traitor like you. That tends to evoke more outrage in our society at every level than any sexual adventures a man might embark on.”
“The difference is,” Dai snarled, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “I am not guilty of the faked-up charges against me, but I know for a fact you are guilty as charged. I caught you red-handed, literally. And the blood of a good Vigiles was shed that night too.”
Cloelius sighed and sat back on his bunk. “Appearances can be very deceptive Llewellyn, and like it or not your guilt or innocence will be decided in a court of law not by whatever you might choose to say or believe.” He lay back as if reclining on a lectus. “You might discover that I am in fact the innocent one and you turn out to be guilty. Now that would be an interesting outcome, don’t you think?”
The chilling realisation that the corrupt medicus spoke the truth staggered Dai. The words leeched all strength from his muscles and he sank down to sit with his back against the cold grey wall.
“Why are you still here?” he demanded, when the moment of weakness had passed.
“What a strange question. It’s not as if I can just stroll along to the atrium or visit the baths, is it?”
Dai lifted a hand in protest. “You know what I mean. You must have been here for months. Yours was an open and shut case. I signed off all the evidence myself back in Martius. It only needed a hearing before an independent Magistratus to…”
“Sentence me to death?” Cloelius gave a rasping laugh. “You show yourself the true Briton, Llewellyn. There are people I’ve met who have been held here for the last ten years.”
Dia bridled at that.
“But it’s against the law. No Citizen can be deprived of his or her freedom. They are tried and if found guilty, sentenced either to death or whatever fine is due.”
“Ah, British logic,” Cloelius said, his tone shifting to that of a teacher explaining simple facts to a schoolboy. “Those I speak of are Citizens who stand accused of capital offenses and are awaiting their day in court. They all have powerful friends in Rome using every legal wrangle there is to keep them from coming to trial. Some of the crimes have to be prosecuted within a certain time limit, so if they can delay that day long enough they can walk free. Others are commuted by prolonged negotiation from death to a fine. Everyday is a barter day. But you worked here in Londinium as a Vigiles so you really should know that.”
It was true that he had heard the rumours so it was not really a surprise. But his day-to-day clientele at that time had been almost exclusively non-Citizen criminals.
“You have powerful friends?”
Cloelius hunched one shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “Perhaps I do. Or powerful enough to keep me from trial so far. Don’t you? I am assuming you must do to have secured both Citizenship and a plum administrative appointment.” He leaned forward as if offering a confidence. “At the very least they might be able to have your Citizenship rescinded which would give you the chance of commuting your sentence to hard labour instead of the arena.”
That was something that had not occurred to Dai as a possibility before. It was true that committing any serious crime could lead to an application for the revocation of an awarded Citizenship – something given could be taken away. An option not open to those born with Citizenship status. But the kind of hard labour criminals were condemned to was brutalising.
“I don’t see that would be much better,” he said, hearing the bitterness in his own tone. “Just a slower way to die.”
“Perhaps. But at least, my British friend, you have options. Who knows? We may even grow old together in this cell.”

From Dying to be Innocent the 9th Dai and Julia Mystery by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook.

You can also listen to this extract being read on YouTube.

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Earlier that same afternoon, Em had been debating which of her quietly coloured jersey dresses to shove on for the monthly meeting of the Ladies whilst wondering to herself what this Cropper woman was going to be like. From the voice – she assumed wispy, middle class, and somehow not happy. The phone breaking into her thoughts was, for once, a welcome distraction.
“Emmeline Vanderbilt speaking.”
“Ah. Good afternoon. Christopher Charles Cassington here.”
For a moment Em was at a loss. Then she remembered. This was the bat man. Injecting her voice with a warmth she was far from feeling she responded.
“Good afternoon Mr Cassington. To what do I owe the pleasure.”
“Your colony of bats.”
“Hardly ‘my’ colony, but what about them?”
“The colony is being registered with the authorities as we speak, theoretically ensuring its protection. But I’m not a trusting man, and I have my ear to the ground. I heard rumours that the bats may be in danger, so I have taken a few precautions. This evening, before the bats awaken fully I’m bringing in a ringing team to ring and weigh and record. In addition to the volunteers there will be: a team from Natural Nation taking photographs, a journalist and photographer from Batty about Bats magazine, and a crew from Middle England TV filming a piece for the local news.”
Em began to feel truly fond of the odd little man. “Oh. Well done,” she said fervently.
“I thought you might want to come along and speak to the telly people. I’m not good with that sort of stuff. And you look. Ummm. Imposing.”
Em laughed. “Very well. What time?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Very well. I’ll be there.”
She put the phone down. Grinning. The jersey dresses would have to wait, as would the Ladies. Casual, she thought, if impeccably tailored.
Promptly at six-thirty a smallish convoy of vehicles drew into the village street. There was a minibus full of earnest bat-ringers, a Land Rover emblazoned with the Natural Nation logo, a bulky outdoor broadcast van, a white Volvo she guessed was the Bat magazine, and a Frog-Eyed Sprite she recognised with a wry grin. The vehicles disgorged their passengers and Em quietly tagged onto the end of the crocodile which made its way into the church. 
Erasmus briefly appeared on her shoulder. “The small bats will cooperate. Once I made them understand this would spike the vicar’s guns.”
“We hope. But thanks.”
He flapped off and Em made her way into a church that was now a hive of activity. The television reporter was a fattish man in a loud sports jacket, and Em wasn’t looking forward to speaking to him. But he had his eye on different bait. There was a coltish teenager with dimples among the bat-ringing crew and he already had an avuncular arm about her shoulder. She caught Em’s eye and offered the suspicion of a wink before gazing soulfully at the reporter.  Em retreated to a quiet corner and prepared to watch the show. The pretty teenager managed to tactfully shake off the reporter, who straightened his toupee before giving a piece to camera about the colony of rare bats found in the belfry of St Barnabas Church in Little Botheringham.
He was in full spate, and the comely teen was displaying a newly-ringed bat, when the church door banged open.
The vicar stood in the doorway, he was breathing heavily and his face was puce with rage.
“Get out of my church,” he bellowed. 
The television cameraman, with the faultless instincts of his ilk, turned his lens on the furious clergyman in the doorway.
“Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera. Switch off the camera and clear off.”
He was all but dancing with rage, and Em wondered what he might do next. She wasn’t due to find out, though, because a gentle voice spoke from the back of the church.
“Do calm down, Reverend Turner. All necessary permissions have been granted.”
The vicar jumped as if he had been stung as the owner of the voice stepped towards him. Bishop Esmond’s principal secretary arrived at his elbow and placed an admonitory hand on his biceps. 
The secretary turned his practiced smile into the lens of the camera.
“My colleague and I will just clear up this little misunderstanding. Carry on.”
He waved a white hand and steered the fulminating vicar out into the churchyard.
Em found Arnold at her side and they high fived. 
“Get out of that you bastard,” she crowed.

Part 9 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

“It’s a long way up.”
“It’ll be worth it when we get to the top,” he promised.
“But what’s up there?”
He wouldn’t say, just laughing and tugging her along in his wake.
When they reached the top of the hill she looked around in bemusement. It was just another hilltop. Then he turned her so she was looking at a stand of trees and a white stone that stood among them.
“Sacred to the memory of Arthur Merryweather,” she read.
The sudden tears filled her eyes.
“Oh. You’ve found it. After all these years. You found my dad’s grave…”

©️Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Pronunciation

1. (verb – pronunciation note: pro-nuncio-tun) The act of advocating excessive speed on the part of motorcycle riding papal representatives.
   Example: His pronunciation encouraged the cardinal to break the speed limit.
2. (verb – pronunciation note: pro-noun-say-asian) The declaration of their chosen pronouns by someone with Chinese heritage.
   Example: Su Jin’s pronunciation was they would be they/them henceforth.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Conservative

1. (adjective – pronunciation note: con-serve-a-toff) Being very strongly opposed to the class system and the idea that the lower classes exist only as servants for the landed gentry
   Example: Being a working-class hero, Sally was a conservative activist.
2. (noun – pronunciation similar) A servant drawn from the criminal classes
   Example: Lord Whinny was shocked to discover his butler was a conservative.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.