FICKLE MATTERS

So I finally got the Crapman and the Crapwife down to the sunny south. I found them in their new Crapmobile with all the Craphounds sleeping in the Crap boot. I got in the Crapmobile then and gave Crapdirections to my house, almost trying to direct them across a pedestrian bridge. Pretty of crap of me. But we finally did get up to Monastery Hill, the soiree which followed was far from crap, complete with beer, rice crispy buns, and medieval-themed baking from the beacon. She spelt out the word "alchemist" - her medieval epithet for me - atop the buns with silver edible baubles. At least I hope they were edible. This was silver that wasn't turned into gold anyway, it came out the other end relatively unchanged through bodily alchemy. Speaking of it, poo-poo became a bit of a running (no pun intended) theme for the remainder of the weekend; whilst sitting eating ice-creams in the Bishop Lucey Park the next day, Crapman imposed upon a piece of performance art an interpretation of "taking a rather large uncomfortable dump." His name is Crapman after all (well, not really). Not to stay on a mucky subject, but "poo" comes from the Middle English word poupen or popen, and it originally meant "fart." The word "fart" appears to be much older, coming from the old english "feortan," proving indeed that the fart comes before the poop. I'm glad though, because I hate it when they come at the same time, it's embarrassing not to mention messy. I'd like to say that etymologies and medieval word-associations were floating around my head while watching the performance art thrust upon us, but Crapman was right: it was shit, and that's all I could think about.