Light, Shine on 2019!

Annamaria on New Year's Eve

This year, Christmas once again found me in the Chianti! With warm friends, lovely food, beautiful surroundings.  I feel enormously blessed.

And during this past week, I have been encircled by glorious Florence, which always lights up my spirit.  Here is a taste of its holiday decor.

Some sights are too wonderful for still photography.  Here are a couple of brief videos to give you better glimpse into what it's like to be here:

I even had a Vivaldi serenade played under my bedroom window one midnight during Christmas week!

As the sun sets on 2018, I look forward to what 2019 will bring.

My hopes and dreams include many lovely possibilities.  Dream some up for yourself!  Get busy making them come true.

I wish you light.  And warmth.  And JOY!

It’s the End of the Year as We Know It…

Zoë Sharp

So here we are again. Another twelve months have gone by. By the time you read these words, there will be only New Year’s Eve ahead and then we step out of the old year, kicking the dust of it off our feet, and into the next.

  

Lulu in 'festive' mood...

I confess that 2018 has been a bit of a mixed bag. Ups and downs, but overall the scales tip just to the side of positive, I think. And receiving Christmas cards and messages from people I haven’t perhaps heard from since last Christmas is a useful reminder to be more assiduous about keeping up with old friends.

Although I try not to make resolutions as such, it’s a useful time for reflection and a sense of renewal. I have a lot to be getting on with in 2019, and this year maybe—just maybe—I’ll live up to my own expectations.

Meanwhile, this is the time of year I like to take a quick spin through some of the fascinating new words that have been added to the dictionary over the last twelve months. Here are some of my favourites from the Oxford English Dictionary:

adownrights, is a revival of a word from the late 1100s, when it meant straight down, and can now also be used as a substitute for an expletive.

chode, a male sexual organ which is, ahem, larger in circumference than it is in length.

jamette, comes from the French diametre (diameter) and means someone on the fringes of society or beyond. It is also apparently used in some Caribbean countries to indicate 'a lady of negotiable affections…'

munted is a New Zealand word with two closely related meanings. One is something that is in a disastrous state of repair; broken or ruined. The other is to be drunk.

ojek, meaning a motorbike taxi.

rigwelted, an overturned sheep. A heavily pregnant ewe may roll over and be unable to right herself.

A rigwelted sheep...honest!

satcaster, the actual time it takes a computer to perform a task, from the time the data is fed in to the time a solution is received.

spoggy, is chewing gum, a word used particularly in the Grimsby and Cleethorpes area of the UK.

spoggy--banned in Singapore

ubuntu, a South African word meaning a quality that includes the essential human virtues; compassion and humanity. (Perhaps we could all do with a little of that in the coming year.

As always, I wish you Health, Luck, and Happiness in 2019!

Ready or Not, It's Auld Lang Syne Time Again...

Jeff—Saturday

Not being known for having a firm grasp on when it's best to call it quits, I thought I'd risk enhancing that reputation by parlaying the rave reviews of last Saturday's parody of "T'was The Night Before Christmas" into rerunning another parody (Ed. Note: "rave" being measured by Barbara not tossing me out on my red nose).  This one, though, probably should be written by a Scot since it’s derived from a poem by perhaps the most famous Scot of all—as opposed to the most famous reindeer of all—Robert Burns (1759-1796).  A Mykonian lass who’d read last Saturday's rendering a couple years back had suggested I take a crack at this New Years Eve standard, and who was I to resist a request? 

Robert Burns

Burns wrote the poem (here’s the original version) in 1787, set to the tune of a traditional folk tune (Roud #6294).  Its seminal phrase, “Auld Lang Syne,” is traditionally translated as “long, long ago” though “old long ago” is more literally correct (based upon my deep understanding of the Lowland Scots language) and is a song about love and friendship in times past. For those of us who believe in time travel, astral planes, and questionable sobriety, I should point out that the phrase “auld lang syne” has been used by other poets in their work, including one Allan Ramsay (1686-1757), which I guess gives our Caro and her Alan a claim to have beaten me to the punch (bowl).

The other Ramsay...also with another career, a wigmaker

Happy New Year, everyone—and please forgive me, Scotland.

Should odd acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should odd acquaintance be for not,
And made to toe the line?

As in odd.

For all fond thine, I cheer,
For all fond mine,
We'll share a cup o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

And surely you’ll pick yours to hug!
And surely I'll pick mine!
And we'll show a lot o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

For all fond thine, I cheer,
For all fond mine,
We'll share a cup o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

We all have run about the hills
In search of flower wine;
And wandered many a weary foot,
But we’re all fine.

For all fond thine, I cheer,
For all fond mine,
We'll share a cup o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

We too have paddled up the stream,
In mourning, fun, and grind;
And seas between us broad have roar'd,
But we’re all fine.

For all fond thine, I cheer,
For all fond mine,
We'll share a cup o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

And here's a hand, my trusty friend!
And give a hand o' thine!
And we'll drink to kindness and good will,
For we’re all fine.

For all fond thine, I cheer,
For all fond mine,
We'll share a cup o' kindness yet,
For we’re all fine.

To get your head back in the holiday mood--and me hopefully back in the good graces of the Scots--here's the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards playing Auld Lang Syne accompanied by a journey to the timeless Scotland of Robert Burns' inspiration.

A Happy, Healthy, and Prosperous New Year to ALL!

—Jeff

Stan's Seasonal Conundrum; The Elf strikes back.

My Guest Blogger Today

Hamishina McSami

I think  this might be a first for the MIE bloggers, an inter continental multi linguistic multi cultural  blog. ( Stan's got culture and I don't!).  I was just going to repeat Stan's Blog. And maybe argue with him, or agree with him, bearing in mind that any arguing is being done from a few thousand miles away.

But I got a guest blogger from Lapland to do it for me.   I think it would be apposite if her comments were in bold. Stan's orginal words of wisdom in faint font. Hamishina McSami's are in feint font! 

So the Scottish percentage ( that will be the intelligent bit!)

A seasonal conundrum ( No, it's not a conundrum, it's set in stone by people in power. Like the mother- in- law.)

First, a very happy holiday to all our readers. I wish you a healthy and happy 2019, surrounded by piles of books.   With this I concur. And Like Yoda I talk. Like Prosecco I drink. Healthy, prosperous and creative New Year to you all. As I am one of Santa's Elves, I'm on holiday now, it's been a busy week.

                                           

When I grew up in Johannesburg, my parents worked hard to make our Christmas just like the European one of their heritage (Wales ( rains and they sing a lot, Scotland ( rains and they swear a lot), Norway ( lovely country,  fabulous opera house in Oslo that proves sobriety or well  co-ordinate drunkenness). Of course, it started with a Christmas tree, suitably adorned with decorations, lights, and a star on top. Then we had to spray it with artificial snow to complete the scene.

                                         


The snow was all important for Santa to be able to deliver the goods! I always felt sorry for the old man, dressed as he was to ward off the cold, when the temperature outside was somewhere between 25 and 30 degrees C (approximately 80 - 88 degrees F). And that was in Johannesburg. Down at the coast in Durban, the temperature was at least ten degrees warmer. Poor man.

Scottish children very often have a special guidance system to help Santa through the snow. They sing louder. You see Stan, Santa is up very high and it's cold up there, hence why Santa resembles Ranulph Fiennes. And he needed to hear us to know what chimney to come down ( if you had been good. Knowing you, you might have been bad, annoying hippos and belting the living daylights out of golf balls, so  you might not have been on Santa's GOOD list.  Caro always was.  We elves check these things carefully.  And this is a fictional blog.) But Caro and her friends  had to sing  so Santa could hear them and know where they were.  Santa usually got stuck in the rain cloud that hovers permanently over Glasgow, or  on the M8 if  there was a drone at the airport.  Then the kids would be quiet as Santa landed on the roof of the Clydeside crane makers where  Caro's Dad worked. The kids listened for every noise.... then they had to sing again in case Santa went into the wrong office... and then, he came down the chimney and they all got a present. He really did come down the chimney in that factory but I guess it had big chimneys and  a small crane was involved somewhere.
The effect was pretty spectacular anyway.
  I also wondered what the reindeer thought of the heat and lack of snow. They think it's was a great idea.   What do you all a deer with no eyeballs? No idea.    One from the cracker there.

The Scottish side of my family exerted considerable influence over the Christmas meal.  ( they know how to party) Everyone dressed relatively formally - most uncomfortable  ( in case the Minister popped in) - then, after a few drinks, we enjoyed turkey and ham,  (Turkey) with all the trappings ( trimmings), stuffing ourselves to the gills. ( Too rude to translate this into Scots but Stuffed Bung Foo would do it ) Even the kids were allowed half a glass of bubbles ( whisky and tell them it's Irn Bru and watch them keel over). The grand finale was closing all the curtains to darken the room, ( It's dark by twenty past three in Glasgow, it's not light in Lapland until the year 2023 ) followed by the ceremonial entrance of the flaming plum pudding accompanied by the skirl of the bagpipes played by my cousins, Murray MacGregor.  ( for a better result put plum pudding in ears while Murray plays bagpipes and eat cranachan) Then all the kids eagerly awaited their helping, hoping to find a small coin embedded in it. When very young, the amount was a 'tickey' (what we called a thrjppeny coin), but inflation eventually resulted in the treasure being half a crown (two shillings and six pence). Caro called them a thruppeny bit, then inflation  forced it to a sixpence ( 5p). This tradition is now banned by health and safety as with some folk's cooking, the raisins were so hard they were indistinguishable from a metal coin. And swallowed.

                                     

Finally, the meal over, stomachs stretched, the kids would stagger to the swimming pool  (  log fire) and lie down  ( in a blanket ) next to it in the glorious sunshine ( basking in the heat of the flames). In later years, we would have a watermelon in the pool, secretly injected with vodka. ( Was that a trick learned from Errol Flynn?)

So what is the conundrum? Indeed?We elves need the employment.

For me, ever since I was very young, I found it really weird that we wanted to perpetuate a European tradition in Africa.  After all, Christianity didn't originate in a snow-covered land. And there's no evidence that Santa was white. So why perpetuate those myths? After all, there were plenty of black Christians. Why not have an African Christmas more suited to where we were? Perhaps a baobab rather than an evergreen tree. Maybe a black Santa wearing summer attire, arriving on an elephant or a bicycle.   We live at the North Pole, it'd take Santa ages to cycle out of there!
                                         

Because, as I am sure you know. most of all that  is Pagan, Russian or German.   As to the Christian bit,  you are probably right.  The rest of  it is about the change of the year when life was really hard for the ancestors of the Northern European bloggers. A bad winter meant a early death. They would long for the sun,  as the Africans would long for the rain.
It would be about survival I guess.

The conundrum is what to tell my grandkids. ( Don't tell them anything, they will use it against you! These could be the people  choosing your care home) All around, even today, in the shops and media, Santa is  an old white man and arrives in a sled drawn by reindeer. Still very colonial. So out of place. But the kids expect it. And the last thing I want to do is spoil their Christmas. And it is tradition, nothing more than that.  If you say something Santa might not visit.

Is it not all the more magical for being  different?   They can explain things like that in Lapland, they have the National Elf Service for that.

Should I suffer in silence?  ( Would it be cheeky to say that you'd the first man who ever did!)

The  fireplace all ready for Santa, with a with dram for him and a carrot for Rudolfina.

Hamishina McSami.  Senior Elf  (Reindeer Nose Polishing Section)

A seasonal conundrum

Stanley - Thursday

Before I describe my annual seasonal conundrum, Michael and I are delighted to announce our new website.

It is www.michaelstanleybooks.com created by the talented and very patient Sue Trowbridge of Interbridge.

It replaces the old www.detectivekubu.com, which is 10 years old, because we now have a second protagonist, Crystal Nguyen.

Having the new website also allows us to bring our mailing list up to date with respect to privacy regulations and guidelines. So, please visit www.michaelstanleybooks.com and resubscribe to our list. We send out three or four newsletters a year.

A seasonal conundrum

First, a very happy holiday to all our readers. I wish you a healthy and happy 2019, surrounded by piles of books.

When I grew up in Johannesburg, my parents worked hard to make our Christmas just like the European one of their heritage (Wales, Scotland, Norway). Of course, it started with a Christmas tree, suitably adorned with decorations, lights, and a star on top. Then we had to spray it with artificial snow to complete the scene.

The snow was all important for Santa to be able to deliver the goods! I always felt sorry for the old man, dressed as he was to ward off the cold, when the temperature outside was somewhere between 25 and 30 degrees C (approximately 80 - 88 degrees F). And that was in Johannesburg. Down at the coast in Durban, the temperature was at least ten degrees warmer. Poor man.

I also wondered what the reindeer thought of the heat and lack of snow.

The Scottish side of my family exerted considerable influence over the Christmas meal. Everyone dressed relatively formally - most uncomfortable - then, after a few drinks, we enjoyed turkey and ham, with all the trappings, stuffing ourselves to the gills. Even the kids were allowed half a glass of bubbles. The grand finale was closing all the curtains to darken the room, followed by the ceremonial entrance of the flaming plum pudding accompanied by the skirl of the bagpipes played by my cousins, Murray MacGregor. Then all the kids eagerly awaited their helping, hoping to find a small coin embedded in it. When very young, the amount was a 'tickey' (what we called a thrjppeny coin), but inflation eventually resulted in the treasure being half a crown (two shillings and six pence).

Finally, the meal over, stomachs stretched, the kids would stagger to the swimming pool and lie down next to it in the glorious sunshine. In later years, we would have a watermelon in the pool, secretly injected with vodka.

So what is the conundrum?

For me, ever since I was very young, I found it really weird that we wanted to perpetuate a European tradition in Africa. After all, Christianity didn't originate in a snow-covered land. And there's no evidence that Santa was white. So why perpetuate those myths? After all, there were plenty of black Christians. Why not have an African Christmas more suited to where we were? Perhaps a baobab rather than an evergreen tree. Maybe a black Santa wearing summer attire, arriving on an elephant or a bicycle.

The conundrum is what to tell my grandkids. All around, even today, in the shops and media, Santa is  an old white man and arrives in a sled drawn by reindeer. Still very colonial. So out of place. But the kids expect it. And the last thing I want to do is spoil their Christmas.

Should I suffer in silence?

Post script: A friend sent mea picture of a real African Christmas tree.

My top ten fictitious books of 2018

Leye - everyother Wednesday 

Photo by Hackley Public Library

As it’s that time of the year when it’s fashionable to write book lists, I thought I’d write the ten books of 2018 I wish someone had thought to write and some publisher had been bold enough to publish. So, here are my top ten fictitious nonfiction books of 2018:

1               You are fired!
The rise and fall of Donald Trump.

2               How a country shot itself in the foot.
A critical analysis of post BREXIT UK.

3               The Big Con.
How a group of speculators bet against the UK and funded the BREXIT project.

4               Climate change? What climate change?
Famous last words and other leadership fails.

5               A.I. is your friend.
The first book written by Alexa.

6               The Hashtag revolution.
Bringing down patriarchy one bastard at a time.

7               The last reality TV show.
The story of the last reality show ever. EVER.

8               The fallacy of leadership.
Essays on the inefficacy of management and the pointlessness of leadership.

9               How not to be a vegan.
A guide for new vegans who do not want to be annoying.

10           The trial of David Cameron.
Self explanatory.

My Wishes for You

Annamaria on Christmas Eve

Blessings of the Season!

 

Happy Golden Days...
Click here!

Joy in the New Year!

Make the world your own...
And especially here!

A Mystery Writer's Night Before Christmas, redux!

 

Jeff—Saturday

It’s almost Christmas Eve! To all of you from the many different corners of our world who so kindly follow us on MIE, the very best of the Holiday Season, no matter how you may choose to celebrate the time.  For many of us it’s all about family traditions, and as I’m blessed to be part of the MIE family I have a little tradition of my own I like to sneak in here during the holiday season.  It’s a little something I composed for my Christmas Eve post a few years back and whether or not you’d like seeing it again, it’s a tradition so we’re stuck with it…though updated to include the new members of our MIE family. I take great pleasure in brutally fracturing the classic poem, “Twas the Night Before Christmas” by Clement Clarke Moore or Henry Livingston—history is still not sure who wrote it, so apologies to both. 

Livingston

Moore

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a laptop was stirring, nor even a mouse.
The reviews were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that new readers would soon find them there.

The critics were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of best-seller danced in my head.
And DorothyL in her wimsey, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for the hiatus nap.

When out on the Net there arose such a chatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the keyboard I flew like a flash,
Tore open the browser and dove in with a splash.

The glow on the screen cast like new-fallen snow,
A lustre of brilliance onto writing so-so.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But the sight of a blog with ten writers so dear.

With a little bold driver so quick with a thrill,
I knew in a moment he hailed from Brazil.
More rapid than eBooks their creations they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

“Now, Kubu! now, Aimee! now, Charlie and Guy!
On, Vera! On, Justin! on, Hiro and Rei!
To the top of the Times! to the top of them all!
Now Anderson, slash away! slash away pall!”

As wry thoughts, that before the final deadline fly,
When they meet with an obstacle soar to the sky.
So off to their blog-posts these non-courtiers flew,
With a sleigh full of ploys, and opinions not few.

And then, in a twinkling, I saw not from aloof,
The prancing and gnawing of hard comments and spoof
Taking aim at some points so to bring them to ground,
Brought on by hard thinkers from near and far ‘round.

The writers were dressed from each head to each foot

In bold clothes that were tarnished with gashes well put.
A bundle of ARCs each had flung on its back,
They looked like kind peddlers bringing books to a rack.

Their eyes—how they twinkled! Their dimples how merry!
Their cheeks like Jeff Bezos’s, their noses like sherry!
One’s droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
‘Til his bottle of bourbon fell out on the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
Threw up smoke of the kind to fire scotch from the heath.
He had a broad face that would fill up the telly,
And as he reached for his bottle mumbled, “Just jelly.”

Neither chubby nor plump, more like jolly and svelte,
I laughed when I saw him, ‘til his stare I felt.
But a wink of his eye and no twist to my head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

They all spoke not a word, but went straight to their work,
And filled all the bookshelves, then turned with a jerk.
And crossing their fingers aside of their noses,

And giving great nods, passed around the Four Roses.

They kept all at play ‘til the ladies gave whistle,
Then each turned as one to read an epistle.  
And I heard them exclaim, ‘ere my charger lost might,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-fright!”

And, of course,“Kala Kristougenna.”

—Andreas Kaldis