Solanum Tuberosum!

No!  It's Not An Incantation From Harry Potter
Nor is it the name of some fiendish alien race from "Doctor Who" (the BBC's premier dramamentary program).
     I refer, gentle reader, to the potato.  That's it's Latin name.  Not that knowing that datum point makes it taste any better.  Art?

Exhibit one

     I bring this up because - well, get a cup of tea and a biscuit, because this will take a while.  Your Humble Scribe was pondering on that hoary old subject, How South Canadians Mispronounce Words (sister subject to How South Canadians Mis-spell Words) when he dwelt upon the humble potato.  We in the Allotment of Eden pronounce it "Pot-aye-toe" which is proper and correct, whereas the South Canadians call it a "Poh-day-doh" and are wrong, the poor misguided souls.  Still, you can't throw off the influence of the Mother Tongue and rebel without it having consequences.  Art?

South Canadians try to make the world's biggest brew

     So, Conrad's suggestion about how to square this mismatch in pronunciation is simple: we call it the "Starchy Tuber" from now on, and that's pronounced "Tyubeh" NOT "Too-ber", let's make that plain.
     Having established this logical nomenclature, it also struck me that as well as pronouncing things differently, different cultures see the same thing differently.  Take global warming, and please don't pretend it isn't real, or you can go sit in the corner with the Flat Earthers and Apollo Hoaxers wearing a tinfoil dunce cap*.
     Generally, we in the West believe global warming to be a bad thing, especially here in the Allotment of Eden, as we'd be reduced to perching on Scottish mountains if the seas rise.  John Wyndham foretold it all in "The Kraken Wakes", you know - a futurologist before his time.

Time for a refreshing bath!

     Horrors!  
     Well, that's not the perspective of the Ruffians.  O no.  You understand that their far North is a wilderness of ice and snow and more ice and more snow?  And thus it has been for millenia.
     No longer.  Art?

Suez or Saint Petersburg

     There is now a viable route across the Arctic Ocean for three months of the year, during which ships can shave about 5,000 miles off a journey as compared to travelling south via the Suez Canal, which means £££ signs appeared in the eyes of Tsar Putin, as he'll want a slice of whatever profit is made.  This is why he rolled his eyes and shook his head at that kayaking teenager; who wants to be lectured by a schoolgirl when there's billions of roubles to me made!

"How to strangle voles the Tsar Putin way!"

     So, that's my example of how different countries see the same thing differently.  If you don't like it or don't agree, tough: once again, whose blog is it?
     Motley, fetch me some jellied quince on wholemeal toast, for I feel peckish.

Drop Ships And Lasers
No!  Nothing to do with "Aliens", although one wonders what the scabrous eyeless bumbletucks would do if they did face a a computer-controlled laser cannon that could instantly range them with a low-powered laser pulse from 5 miles away before blowing a hole the size of a dinner plate in them - 
     Excuse me, my palms are sweating - a paper towel, motley, if you please - thank you.
     Okay,  Conrad came across an animated ad on Facebook demonstrating what looked like a pretty devastating pocket laser called "Tactilax", which showed it blowing up balloons, burning into wood, setting paper alight or cutting it apart, all of which served to make it look horribly dangerous.  Art?

The device

     It's apparently sold by Torchexpro, and the story has only just begun ...**

Tea!
Best drink of the day.  The "cup that cheers and not inebriates" according to some wag in ages past.  Take notice, errant South Canadians.
     Anyway, what we see below (if you possess eyes - sinister xenomorphs take note) is a tea blend Wonder Wifey brought back from her cruise in tropical waters: Spicy Chai with Mexican Chilli.  There was a scribbled description on the card casing, though since it's in blue Biro on black card, I can't get a photo of it.

Behold the blend

          This is very nice stuff!  Spicy indeed, and with a definite bite from the chilli.  Quite what it would taste when full of <winces> milk and sugar is anyone's guess, as I like it black, the way tea is meant to be drunk (South Canadians and eyeless aliens take note, again).
What Do You Have To Be So Cheerful About?
It's a salient fact that Gomorrah on the Irwell ("Manchester" if we're being formal) possesses a surprising number of trees in the hideous concrete hinterland of despoiled radioactive wastes city centre.  Thus it was this morning, this damp morning, this damp dark morning, this damp dark cold morning <alright we get it - editorial function courtesy Mister Hand> as I stalked past the Bay Horse pub (Manchester also having a surprising number of pubs***) that I heard the merry trill of a bird, and then several birds.  They all seemed to be in a tremendously good mood.

A Manchester morning

     This is where I noticed that, all unbeknownst behind me, dawn was beginning to break <insert poetic guff about gold and roses here>, and that line from Kipling came to mind:

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flying fishes play,

And the dawn comes up like thunder

In China across the bay.

     If that's incorrect or incomplete, I don't care.

I might have known someone would put it to music

     I couldn't help feeling that this poetic dawn of Kipling was being very anti-social, thundering about.  Conrad would prefer it if it could manage to come up like a kitten on a carpet, thank you very much, not in ten-league boots made out of reinforced concrete.

Finally -
Conrad thinks he will betake himself off to Waterstones to look at books!



*  I know, I know, veering dangerously close to Politics.  Sue me if you dare.
**  You know me, I tend to go on a bit, and we're already two-thirds done
***  Who knew!