Your Humble Scribe likes to gloast a bit about how well he can bake (if prodded into it when he proves reluctant) and how facile he is with words, because, let's face it, he doesn't have a lot else going for him: no sense of rhythm, a face made only for scowling, a horrid sense of humour and a worrying fascination with nuclear weapons. Art?
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| Case in point - the Special Atomic Demolition Munition |
Thus I have now discovered what one of the cryptic clues in the Level 3+ crossword from the Reader's Digest Compendium meant, which is a touch of redemption. I felt so hollow and inept when there were 5 clues I couldn't get, including one where the clue was "Grass scare", and the answer was "PANIC". Art?
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| The Greek god Pan |
It was believed that any inexplicable state of fear was down to Pan, hence you get the Greek "Panikos", which melded into the French "Panique" and thus Panic.
"How on earth does that work in any way whatsoever?" I pondered, and until 5 minutes ago I'd no idea. Then I Googled "Panic grass", and do you know what?
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| Panic grass |
HOW THE BLUE BLAZES AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW THAT WHEN I'M NOT A GARDENER OR BOTANIST NOR A HERD OF GRAZING CATTLE!!
As you can see, I was irked.
On the other side of the coin, I did do rather well at the word square a few pages later. I missed out the Wordsearches as they are tediously dull. Art?
In case you can't read it properly, "30+ words - Genius" and as you can clearly count, I got 32. "DACE" is a small species of fish. Art?
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| Conrad not interested unless you can eat it. |
So I think the overall score is, Word Puzzles 1 : Conrad 1.
Please excuse me, the motley and I are going to be playing Giant Outdoor Scrabble, where one of the squares is booby-trapped with an explosive charge. Exciting times!
Bitten By The Coincidence Hydra - AGAIN
Today I sharpened my wits by doing Monday's MEN Cryptic Crossword, which of course I smashed as I'm so brilliant at Cryptic Crosswords, and it wasn't a Level 3+ standard, either. Anyway, one of the answers was "LUCERNE" which is another variety of grass,
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| 17 Down and the bottom starboard clue |
one that might even be named after that town in Helvetia*. Art?
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| Lucerne: O so picturesque. |
The thing is, later this evening I had recalled a couple of stories from an old paperbook collection of horror tales, published under the title "Alfred Hitchcock Presents" or something similar, and especially the first in the volume, which was titled "Being A Murderer Myself", and which is about - well, the clue is in the title.
Anyway, I have not read this story, nor has it crossed my mind, for decades: at least thirty years, and what do I find mentioned early in the text? Art!
Egad! "Lucerne cutters". What are the chances of that happening on the same day within a couple of hours of each other? Finally, let us have a look at Lucy Lucerne. Art?
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| Fodder for cattle. (Okay, you can eat it but Conrad won't fight you for it) |
Just to bring you up to speed, I am about to start work as my Still Coyly Anonymous Massive Employer has us working one Saturday in three. This is seen by a great imposition by many (especially me!) and I have long agitated for it to go the way of both the Dodo and the Wirrn, to no avail. Of course, my compatriots in the retail arm of SCAME would see working one Saturday in three as utter bliss, certainly at the moment.
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| Can you hear a wirrng sound? |
To which I would reply "Yes, but do you have an enormous Book Mountain to be reading through at any given moment? No? Ha! I win my case, your honour.**"
A Bit Of Vicarious Slander
I have to say, having access to an index in any work of history enables one to do a good bit of cheating. I have been discussing the frank and critical approach of Stanley Christopherson to his wartime memoirs, where he was not afraid to verbally accost someone if he didn't like them or think much of them as an officer.
Take Peter Laycock, for example. Peter was an affable, charming and urbane chap who went down splendidly in the mess, but whom Stanley considered an utter failure as an officer, with very dodgy reactions to being in action, bordering on Lack Of Moral Fibre (army euphimism-language for being a human-shaped chicken). Art?
| Probably no Peter amongst them |
It has proven impossible to get a photo of Petey, mostly since Colonel Kellett gave him the heave-ho from the regiment and got him a staff job where he could do little harm. This was in 1942; we don't hear anything from Petey until mid-1943, when he reappears in Army records as a Lieutenant Colonel in charge of No. 10 Commando (who are a story in their own right). Predictably, there was no love lost between Petey and the Colonel, which didn't bother Flash at all, as once he had made his mind up the decision was cast in granite.
I am, of course, getting well ahead of the actual timeline and narrative in AEAW. Which has never stopped me before.
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| Look out! The carrots are coming to get you***! |
Finally -
Because we only need a short article to complete the Compositional Ton, I thought I'd lookup weird tanks, and then promptly realised I'd already featured them all <sad face>. So, instead, have a really odd bicycle.
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| Hmmmm. |
At least you wouldn't suffer from punctures with one of these, though you might have to watch out for fallen arches.
* Better known as "Switzerland". I was just being a smart-arse.
** In my head, at least. Which is where it matters.
*** I'm not worried. You can eat them, can't you?
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