Day 100

5.02: Well here we are again for the hundredth time eh? God save the Queen. My head hurts.

Having staggered and dribbled to this grand old age, it’s probably fitting that we talk about the OUP secret graveyard of unused words.

Dringle, earworm, nonversation and sprog are laid beneath its sod, counting out centuries of non inclusion.

The decomposing corposes of polkadodge, wurfing and scrax are being chewed on by the worms of lexicography.

Xenolexica slumbers in a stone-sequestered vault.

Some graphic designer from Dorset’s been poking around in there, trying to raise a few etymological corpses. He’s essentially a linguistic soufflé of Burke & Hare and Dr Frankenstein.

His finest attempt at reanimation, surely, is Quackmire – the muddy edges of a duck pond.

Not quite up to my current favourite Jonsonian definition, but there you go.

To worm: To deprive a dog of something, nobody knows what, under his tongue, which is said to prevent him, nobody knows why, from running mad.

6.54: I’m not sure how productive it is to do this with a head so foggy you could call it a cupasoup. Still, two chapters licked into drink-addled shape. Hopefully there are no sentences like “He drew himself up with clear, steady eyes and… why do my ears hurt? Where are my legs…”

Stuart on good centenary form. Best behaviour like a war veteran in a nursing home waiting for a royal visit.

~ by David Thorley on August 6, 2010.

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