All that glisters is not gold

Funny word, isn’t it? A mixture of glitters, sisters and blisters. The dumb-down-everything brigade are perpetually trying to replace glisters with glitters because people are, in their reckoning, unable to make the mental ‘hop’ from this funny-old-funny-sounding word to the (very similar sounding) word they may have occasionally heard used on some gameshows on TV, even if it isn’t part of their teensy-tiny little personal vocabularies.

Oh, I am so bitter today!

One interesting thing – apparently the exposure of the paedophilic activities of ageing British pop singer Gary Glitter has caused ‘glitter’ to become less popular. It is even possible that people will once again prefer Shakespeare’s poetic alternative. On the other hand, it has got more than one syllable, so they’ll probably plump for ‘bling’.

The quote is from The Merchant of Venice:

O hell! what have we here?
A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
There is a written scroll! I’ll read the writing.
All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscroll’d:
Fare you well; your suit is cold.

[By the way, if there are any ‘s’s missing from any of my posts, it’s because this keyboard is refusing to type them upon the first striking of the key. No, you have to repeatedly strike the ‘s’ and then it might… However many times I check, I always seem to miss one or two.]

I had to ‘do’ The Merchant of Venice at school. I remember enjoying it, at the time, and it being about a pound of flesh, and there being a court case involved, and that a lady called Portia – or was it Desdemona? – no, she was the one that got strangled by Othello over a handkerchief – no, Portia, dressed up as a man to defend – someone or other. Or did she?

This demonstrates the scant usefulness of most of what we are forced to learn in schools, although you might say that, even if I can no longer remember the plot of either The Merchant or Othello I still love Shakespeare and his genius with language – more and more so in retrospect.

So, one little story to illustrate the saying All That Glisters Is Not Gold:

You may or may not know that I have been volunteering with an Organisation that helps Old Folk in a number of different ways. I’m not much of a volunteer, even, since I have but a single client, a very old lady with dementia. This was not much of a challenge to begin with – just a short bus ride/drive once a week, and an hour spent mostly listening and eating chocolate biscuits. Unfortunately the dementia has taken a sudden turn for the worse, as often happens (I remember it with my Mum) and things have become more challenging. I am finding it difficult, really, after Mum, to find myself on that slippery slope to oblivion all over again, albeit with less responsibility.

Anyway, since before Christmas I kept getting these emails from my contact at the Organisation, asking me to pop in to the Centre whenever I next happened to be in town, as a small Christmas gift awaited me. I kept forgetting. To tell the truth I go into Town as infrequently as I can manage, since it depresses me. I come away feeling as if I have been Captured By The Dementors and Imprisoned in Azkaban for several millennia. Well, an exaggeration maybe but all those tattoo parlours, all those £1 stores, all those boarded up shop (s, keyboard, s!) …

However, the only way to stop the emails was to get in the car and drive to Town specially. I knocked on the back door and was admitted. (Luckily the chiropodist didn’t pop out of his lair like a Scottish spider in a white coat, as I am avoiding him.) The girl led me through to the office and handed me a beautifully wrapped little gift attached to a card. It even had that ribbon that they make all curly by stroking it with the blade of the scissors. Someone had taken a lot of trouble.

‘We had decided to eat them if you didn’t come in by the end of the week!’ she joked.

Ah, so chocolates. But chocolates is/are OK.

I thanked them and made for the door, once again avoiding that beady-eyed chriropodist. I walked the entire length of the High Street back to Tesco, where you can park your car for free for three hours (then they send rude letters to you). I drove all the way home. I put the kettle on and opened my Little Gift, and it was a tiny packet of Maltesers.

Maltesers are OK I suppose. Just not worth that long drive into town, that long, cold, drizzly walk up the High treet (s! foul keyboard – how hard can it be?) past all those tattoo parlours, boarded-up shops, £1 stores and bunches of hoodie-wearing teenage louts who no doubt all carry knives, or at least have perfected the art of looking at you as if they do…

But, a Malteser is a Malteser. Not much chocolate involved, maybe, but…

I opened the box and sat there, with my cup of tea and my half-read historical novel (Lamentation by C J Sansom), and proceeded to pig the lot.

From my bookcase: Dissolution: C J Sansom

It is well known that cats are drawn to those who fear them most, and sit at their feet, eyes wide and sort of… threatening. I have long suspected that this principle is in fact universal, and that potentially life-threatening items are inexorably attracted to those who fear them most. Hence the deadly nightshade.

I have deadly nightshade in my garden. I cannot dig it out (as advised by the internet) because its actual roots are in my next door neighbour’s garden and she, being a school teacher and not afraid of anything, didn’t take me seriously when I hinted that she might dig it out. She had her fence panels renewed recently and I suppose the ground being disturbed has given new life to the indigenous weed population. Now the dreaded belladonna has joined those two other local residents, the giant bramble and the unidentifiable yellow triffid-thing.

I’ve always been worried about poisonous vegetation. I remember even as a child, some other infant telling me not to eat the tiny black seeds that rained onto the pavement from the laburnum tree in my mother’s front garden because they were deadly poisonous. That set the seed, as it were, for my not-quite-phobia.

Every few weeks or so the stuff starts sprouting and every few weeks or so I go out there armed with thick rubber gardening gloves, the secateurs, a garden-rubbish bag and a bottle of vinegar to cut it back.  The internet advises that deadly nightshade cannot thrive in a vinegar-treated environment. I can see the amateur chemistry behind this – acetic acid versus poisonous alkaloid. Unfortunately my deadly nightshade plant just seems to guzzle it up and sprout away again.

A long and winding introduction, then, to C J Sansom’s historical crime novel, first in the ‘Shardlake’ series, entitled ‘Dissolution’. You may remember that in a previous post I mentioned my calamitous loss-of-mojo as far as reading was concerned, but I also said I was still trying to get lost in books again, and ‘Dissolution’ is the novel I am trying it with. I found a battered copy in a charity shop – 50p, excellent value – on the way from the bus to the train station. I seem to be permanently between bus and train station nowadays, when not mucking out or feeding cats, decapitating monster brambles or sloshing vinegar on the belladonna.

I suppose this is a sign the book-mojo-magic-thing worked, at least temporarily: having read to the end of Chapter 12, where a poor little novice monk is poisoned by deadly nightshade and comes to a terrible, hallucinating, twistingly-spasmodic end, I put down the book and went out under the full glare of the midday sun (gosh, it’s hot out there!) and attacked the belladonna. It’s been well and truly cut off and vinegar-sodden and I have washed my hands at length at the kitchen sink using yellow washing-up liquid. Irrelevant, I know, the yellowness of the washing-up liquid, but the good detective (or hunchbacked lawyer/agent of Lord Cromwell in this case) lets no detail pass unrecorded.

So, a good one to read if you like that sort of thing. ‘Dark Fire’, the next one in the ‘Shardlake’ series, arrived today. Post-lady gave up trying to push it through the letter box after ten minutes or so of determined wrestling (I was watching her in the living room mirror – even behind frosted glass that tomato-red Royal Mail uniform is unmistakeable) and had to knock on the door and hand it to me in person. Really, I suppose, I should have got up and opened the front door but I was curious to discover how long she would spend trying to ram a thick novel through an obviously inadequate hole in a door.

The cat in the photo is Sophie, by the way. She was my first cat and has, sadly, gone to that great Summer Garden in the sky. And greatly missed she is, even now, hence the elaborate photo frame which I found, of all places, in a garden centre café whilst queuing for egg-on toast and a pot-of-tea with Mum and Dad. Funny how objects bring back memories.

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