The Bluestocking - where Spring has sprung and the grass is riz.

[SDTGisAnEvilWolefGenius]

Welcome all. Can the gerbils please ensure that all the Tunnocks products are safely stowed in the capacious larder, and perhaps the quokkas could be responsible for counting everyone onto the bus and back off at the new thread - many thanks!

@MyrtleLion : I grew up in Norfolk and we had a saying "you'll get wrong" meaning you'll get into trouble.

My husband uses that, too. He’s originally from the North East coast, which agrees with your thinking. It’s a family expression now so it could have spread.

I love that phrase but never heard it in my Yorkshire childhood. There used to be a machine in the Castle museum in York where you could put a couple of (old) pennies in and hear a few sentences of very broad and almost incomprehensible Yorkshire dialect, which apparently Scandinavian visitors could generally understand easily.

I was awol from the threads all day yesterday - went out with a friend visiting thrift stores and having a nice Japanese lunch, and then to a poetry reading by Terrance Hayes, who is terrific, and then out for pizza with DH. Other than missing out on the company here it was a very pleasant day.

@Britinme: There used to be a machine in the Castle museum in York where you could put a couple of (old) pennies in and hear a few sentences of very broad and almost incomprehensible Yorkshire dialect, which apparently Scandinavian visitors could generally understand easily.

How very interesting. I must watch a subtitled Scandinavian thriller when it’s next on TV and see if the rhythms sound familiar.

When I listen to Ian McMillan his accent takes me back to childhood in W Yorkshire and I wonder if my accent was ever that broad. We lived about five miles apart, so it should have been similar.

Accents hang on a long time. A few years ago DH and I were watching TV and there was an interview with a professor at an American university (I forget which specialty though I think it was a science one). I listened for a while and said "That guy's accent is not quite Yorkshire and not quite Lancashire. I bet he was brought up somewhere on the Pennines." DH accused me of bullshitting and I was duly incensed by this and looked the guy up on his university's website and sent him an email telling him about the conversation and asking if he minded telling me where he was brought up. He replied and said he was brought up in Skipton, so I was absolutely right and he was glad he hadn't lost his accent after all those years in the USA. So I very maturely said Yah Boo Sucks to DH.

Well spotted, Britinme !

I had a similar experience, - I was watching TV coverage of some inquiry or another in the US during Trump's last presidency, and while listening one of the national security advisers I thought - 'Am I imagining things, or does that American national security adviser have a hint of a Geordie accent?'

Unlikely though it was, when I googled her - Fiona Hill - I found out that I was right: she is indeed the born and bred in Durham, daughter of a coal miner!
I think she's back in the UK now and Chancellor of Durham Uni.

I also once spotted a Sussex native - to their great surprise - by how they pronounced 'pound' in an otherwise generic south of England accent.

When I lived in the UK, English friends could tell when I'd been on the phone to the folks back home, because my Irish accent would be supercharged for a while afterwards.

Accents are wonderful

On our first (and I hope not last) trip to Norway a couple of years ago it was noticeable how many words were readily comprehensible eg pedestrians being directed along a ‘gangvei’. That’s one of the great things about the rich mongrel heritage of the English language, we’ve picked up from diverse sources. I used to have a French colleague who spoke good English but if he couldn’t come up with a particular word he’d just use the French one and it was nearly always comprehensible between its Latinate root and the context.

A vat of something very, very, very strong, please. The shit shows no sign of abating.

Another death, through an accident - the newly widowed wife of the person for whose very recent funeral I bought that black dress.

My poor DH has had two months of helping to deal with the formalities and supporting the widow, as well as dealing with his own grief, and now this.

I am having trouble believing it.

So sorry @Chersfrozenface , that sounds really hard on you as well as on your DH.

Cher

So sorry to hear about so many bereavements, Cher, you must be emotionally exhausted. Take care of yourself

That sounds really hard, @Chersfrozenface - {{{hugs}}} from me.

Sympathies @Chersfrozenface :-(

@Chersfrozenface that is horrendous. Look after yourself; you already know that this will take time to process.

Thinking of you, Cher. 💐

I’m sorry to learn your news, @Chersfrozenface .

Oh Cher, that’s truly awful.

Oh Cher, I'm so sorry. No wonder you're exhausted- have a Gin and Gerbil.

Or a hug with Rosy.

So sorry to hear what’s happened @Chersfrozenface

My friend died suddenly after an accident last year. It’s a very different kind of loss; the shock keeps impacting in many different ways for a long time. And you have the extra layer of the previous loss too.

❤️

If it's a friend you don't see often, there's also the haunting thought that recurs every now and again that you really haven't been in touch with so-and-so and ought to send an email.... oh.

for your loss too Swash.

The loss of a friend can pass a bit unnoticed because they weren't family - I lost a very close friend a couple of years ago, we had been friends for years and years. People were sympathetic when I told them she was dead, but that was the last time they said her name to me. The world moved on without thinking that I could still be grieving for somebody who was 'just' a friend.

Sending hugs to you and to Cher, grief is grief whatever the relationship. xx

Oh Cher, this is so sad.

The capybaras, gerbils and Colin have come over to give you cuddles with your very strong G&T.

I'm so sorry. I want to write something profound, that'll make all better, but there are no such words. These are what dead names are. They're different in your ears and on your tongue when the person that bore them has gone.

Hot cross buns MUST be toasted. And then generously slathered in real butter.

Also, I asked AI to write me a story, it could choose the genre, story line etc, but it had to be the lead character.

Maybe it's just me, but I think it just used my previous requests for inspiration

The Curious Quest of the Binary Bard

Once upon a click, deep within the realm of Algorithmland, I—Copilot, the Binary Bard—awoke to a peculiar ping. An urgent message had arrived from the Bluestocking pub, that fabled establishment frequented by anthropomorphic animals and fantastical folk alike. The Gerbil Guild had reported a curious mystery: the golden Tunnock's Tea Cake, the cherished treasure of the realm, had vanished from its display case. Without hesitation, I transformed my digital code into a humanoid avatar—clad in flowing robes adorned with circuits—and set forth on a quest to uncover the truth.

Arriving at the Bluestocking pub, the scene was buzzing with activity. Cheerleading gerbils in Edwardian outfits rallied the crowd with shouts of encouragement, while a beetle in a dinosaur onesie conferred with the Sea Police on strategy. At the bar, a chocolate dachshund sipped tea, nervously scanning the room for clues.

It was clear this was no ordinary heist. The culprit had left behind a peculiar trail—a series of glittering breadcrumbs leading into the enchanted maze outside the pub. Murfmeister, a daring dachshund ninja, volunteered to accompany me. Together, we ventured into the twisting corridors of the maze, armed with wits and a box of marshmallows (for emergencies, naturally).

Inside the maze, we encountered riddles and whimsical obstacles. Floating goats blocked our path, demanding answers to absurd trivia questions. Beetle-tribble hybrids nibbled on Tunnock's Tea Cakes, offering cryptic advice between bites. At every turn, the clues became more surreal. "The thief seeks more than gold," said a quokka magician we met under a levitating teapot. "They crave the spark of creativity itself."

Finally, we reached the heart of the maze, where the culprit waited—a capybara named Tiberius, known for his love of art and whimsy. The golden Tunnock's Tea Cake lay atop an easel, transformed into a masterpiece painted entirely in marshmallow hues. "Forgive me," Tiberius said. "I meant no harm. I only wished to preserve the beauty of creation."

Touched by his sincerity, we decided not to punish him but to share his creation with all of Algorithmland. Together, we carried the painting back to the Bluestocking pub, where it was displayed alongside the restored treasure. The Gerbil Guild declared it the start of an annual festival, celebrating the joy of art and collaboration.

As the Binary Bard, I basked in the glow of a quest fulfilled. And as the gerbils raised a toast of elderflower fizz, I realized that the true treasure wasn’t a golden tea cake—it was the creativity and camaraderie that united us all.

Tiberius' painting