The Songstone

Language Log , which for some incomprehensible reason I had not thoroughly explored before now, is one of the most informative and funniest sites around; not only the articles, but the banter below. This article on an escaped chimp in Kansas City and this one  on leaf blowers are two recent examples. No one will be surprised to learn that I made a fool of myself on John Wells's phonetic blog by suggesting that /əʊ/ might exist in Italian. It doesn't of course, although I was pleased to learn on further reading that /ɔ:/ is higher in Milanese Italian than in the Standard variety, sounding much like /o/. Only 70% wrong then; a triumph. Redbubble is a lovely place for art and writing. So good in fact that I have honoured it by posting some of my verse there (under Simonmh). Another shameless plug: my Facebook writer's page is open to anyone who wants to give it a like, which as you've got this far you may as well; I promise not to sell you anything. You've

Freezing panic, appalling loss; I could not breath for a moment. "Wh... What?" and the young American's voice became impatient. "Sorry, that's what she said, it's really nothing to do with me."   I suppose it wasn't, and I can forgive her for that, for she was only a messenger, but I think I understood at that moment the customs of the old Kings of Persia, who would execute the bearer of bad tidings as though he were the originator of them. But... "Well... OK," I said, choking. "Will you ask her to call me when she can?" She never did call, but I knew she wouldn't. There was a terrible finality in that voice; a tone that said, "Oh hey, here's a loser calling for Michela." I heeded it for a week, desperately hoping that every phone call was her, hurting so bad that I cancelled lessons, staying indoors with drawn shutters, ignoring the New Year, hoping she would tell me everything was fine. And then I had to try

I was dazed; she was too. We knew something then that I think is hidden from most: a secret that cannot be shared with others, for there are no words to describe it; only that it was an exaltation . The kisses became more passionate, and the hands wandered more freely, but we did not go further. "Who says I'd let you?" she said, and we laughed; I think we did. At least I laughed, but looking back I cannot see her. The touch, the smell, the happiness are as clear as today, but I cannot see her laughing face: it is lost to me now. Finally it was time to say goodbye, for darkness was coming. I had another lesson, she had to pack. Our parting hug was lingering, unhurried, our final kiss exquisite, and the memory I have of Michela is her standing outside the door, in the same place she had stood the first day, smiling down at me. I never saw her again. She went to Canada, and from Toronto I received a postcard with 'having a great time' and 'love and kisses'