It’s when I’m gardening that the thought-hounds are unleashed.
Empires Villages of the imagination are built, and there are conversations with witches, ghosts, beekeepers, and cats.
Whilst Evil Chicken is pursuing Merlin the entire length of the garden, (he did try to eat her food, after all), I am clipping, lopping, weeding, and moving through worlds that pursue me every bit as doggedly as a demented chook.
But there are also the random notions, aren’t there?
You know – the discarded trivia that one discovers has latched onto some obscure synapse, and then it resurfaces at random. For instance, it came to me that both Anne Boleyn and her daughter Queen Elizabeth I were considered tall for women of the Tudor era. When the skeletal remains of Anne Boleyn were disinterred, the experts wot did that measured her height at 5ft3″ (160cm). So, I would have been tall in Tudor times! Oddly, the notion thrills me. Also, Queen Elizabeth I was apparently somewhere between 5ft3″-5ft5″. A veritable giantess, hey? I imagine them catapulted into the present, walking among us now, staring dumbstruck at this nation of “amazons”.
And I wish I could retain important information instead of tatt, (the location of my passport perhaps?)
Speaking of Tudor times, (but actually, the olden days, in general). I think we should revive “mistress” as a salutation. Instead of Ms, Miss, or Mrs, I believe it would be a grand thing if female persons were addressed as “Mistress”. I would be Mistress M. It’s dignified, yet holds a hint of mischief, don’t you think? It’s possibly even a bit saucy, but not at all diminishing. And it’s also an excellent notion in regards to not defining a woman in regards to her marital status.*
There’s just no way of knowing how married, nor how old or young a person is with “mistress”. For one is simply mistress of one’s self, and queen of one’s realm. In fact, in my house I like to ask “who’s queen?”
I’m nearly finished reading the All Soul’s Trilogy, (in between having a couple of other books on the go). I’ve been enjoying those books heartily. Although I’ve decided that I don’t fancy the romantic hero, (Matthew), one bit. He’s a bit possessive and controlling for my liking. I would get very antsy around Matthew, and possibly do a runner in the night. However, I do fancy me Gallowglass, for it’s no secret that I have a penchant for huge and cheerful Scotsmen.
And I’m (somewhat nervously) thinking of colouring my hair brown. Chocolate-y, golden brown. Eva Green I shall never be, (sad face) but I know well Anne Shirley’s yearning for raven tresses. Note to self: don’t buy hair dye from a travelling peddler promising miraculous results.
That’s enough garden talk for now. Cheerio.
*Of course, I am in no way keen to revive other practices from a former epoch. I rather like the fact that women are not chattels; and that if I get sick, some bloke with dubious qualifications doesn’t come at me with a box of leeches and frightfully dirty hands.