Oh please don’t tell me you’re one of these tiresome people who is going to tell me his name was Wenceslas. I know that. You know that. We all know that. But hands up if you, as a child, thought it was Wences and that he last looked out on the feast of Stephen. When the snow lay round about etc. I know I did I know my other half did too but then you’re looking a man there who also thought it was the page’s balls, not his blood that would be less frozen if he trod boldly in the good king’s footsteps.
We someitmes have a dessert on offer on Christmas Day – a sort of concoction of ice-cream and chocolate baubles, laced with whatever liqueur there is to hand. When I say it looks something like this (unlike my cakes I don’t have a photograph exactly) –
I’m sure you’ll get the picture of what it is called. If only we had a spell-check on all these misheard song lyrics eh? Carols especially. I have it on tape, my younger daughter exhorting the merry gentlemen to let nothing be displayed. Like they were a degenerate bunch of flashers, on their way home from a whole evening’s bevy down the pub, or something.
Maybe they were? Who am I to say? When it comes to carols you are looking at the woman whose feelings for them have run deep since the older sister cliped to our mum how I wouldn’t lend the coat of fur – I wasn’t a were wolf – to the baby Jesus in Rocking and I was the only child at the school fancy dress party next day in school uniform as a result. And they didn’t improve either after I was nearly trampled to death by four hundred children coming a wassailing, not amongst the leaves so green but in a never rehearsed with them Dicken’s evening.
Yes, I had always thought it was impossible to dig one’s heels into a wooden floor. And not just mine. Three of us stalwartly linked arms, confident we would be lucky to see Christmas Day but we had lived a happy life. We even enquired of one another how we were doing as the buffalo herd stamped over our feet. Naturally though we stopped singing.
I suppose mishearing is as bad as misreading. And I have also misread in my time. Despite knowing a woman whose proof-reading skils were second to none, I nearly let a piece of writing, I was responsible for editing, past. It was all about an annual window display. I don’t like to think of the furore it would have caused had it gone to print reading annual widow display. Again, maybe some places have them, but I don’t know of many. Except maybe my brain where I could quite clearly picture cami-knockered matrons. The thing was the person who wrote the piece never made an error.
So, getting round to the fact that yes, this week I opened my mail box to see the dreaded little word
And I think that’s how my poor editor probably felt about my manuscript by the way.
It doesn’t matter how much we think we’ve polished, the eye is like the ear, it picks it up ‘wrong’ by heart really. It’s quite shocking to see what slips past. So, polish till it shines, I guess.
Oh annny mistakes s in theise blog issw down to the fat it’s Christmas…..