When the grandfather clock clanged six times this evening, I finally aroused myself from bed. Except for an austere interruption midday to drive to the pharmacy to replenish my supply of drugs for neuropathy, I had been in and out of bed repeatedly since about ten o’clock last evening. It is only now however after having taken two pills that I feel at all normal.  The twitching and convulsions of my lower limbs appear to have been arrested measurably. Since I haven’t a chill or sore throat or upset stomach, I am attributing the malaise (never was there a more appropriate word) to the former dearth of Lyrica. I ran out of pills about two days ago when I discovered to my alarm that my supply was at an end. The requisition was delayed pending approval by my family physician.

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Although I don’t recall ever being told to “Go to your room!” the mandate most certainly captures a uniqueness which has for me more than an uncertain resonance. As I now like to quip, I grew up as a cave dweller.  In boarding school the singular privacy was one’s rooms.  I employ “rooms” in the plural because until I was appointed a Prefect in upper school I shared a room with another chap. In either instance one’s room or rooms was/were considered a haven of retreat from what was otherwise universal disclosure beginning with the Great Hall where we all dined, then chapel, classes, the locker room, the playing field, the tuck shop and the common room, not to mention the showers and the “cans”.  Preserving the intimacy of one’s private devotions was a matter seldom accomplished other than by arising before the morning bell.

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Because it isn’t every day that one can so eagerly proclaim life’s serendipity I rather thought it felicitous to do so on this occasion. I have to tell you, it was with more than a little smugness this morning that we withdrew from the Service Ontario counter, by-passing with appropriate complacency those who had meanwhile gathered in line behind us, having accomplished an unwittingly speedy amendment of the documentation relating to our driver’s licence and health card. By unaccustomed luck when we arrived there mid-morning only one person was ahead of us and he was speedily addressed, leaving it to us and to us alone to complete our appointed tasks.  As I say however by the time my photograph had been taken and the documentation obsequiously signed, a fairly lengthy group had gathered behind us awaiting their turn. Their impatient demeanour I might add was positively mournful in comparison to our own skip-and-a-jump as we bounded au dehors!

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Being a good listener has never been something of which I am often accused.  Instead – so it seems – I prefer to identify the slightest acquaintance of what others say or are attempting to say with what has happened to me. The most casual similarity is apparently sufficient for me to redirect another’s monologue to my own account.  Overall it is a bad habit albeit one which I pretend to diminish as an attempt at conversation. But I confess it most certainly fails the test of accommodation. Listening is hard when it is sprinkled like particles of bread upon the waters of participation.

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I might usefully amend the title of this entry to read instead, “What little I know of the grand homes of Almonte” because in the past 46 years of my currency in Almonte I have never taken photographs of the interior of any of the grand homes I have visited; and, my sparse knowledge of the history of the mansions is limited to what is either popular information or my personal evanescence.  Accordingly I apologize at the outset for what I am certain will be shallow observation.

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We were all taught not to do certain things. Like pick your nose or cough without covering your mouth. The instruction was part of what is called propriety, the state or quality of conforming to conventionally accepted standards of behaviour or morals. You may be amused to discover that the etymology of the word propriety is nothing directly associated with what we sometimes call “proper” but rather the word for property.

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Weekly attendance at church, temple, synagogue or mosques is a welcome occasion to remind oneself and others of one’s superb elevation from the putrid slop of the gutter wherein persists the waste of humanity. And if I might add – though naturally concealed out of the side of my mouth – the fortifications and castellated tops of the Church of England and its derivative Christian mystics – far surpass the allure of the culturally toxic Eastern spires and turrets which are but more evidence of the infiltration from afar designed to cloud and disturb the atmospheric clarity of our own Star from the East.

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The Queen of England was not dead but a moment before the circus surrounding her was trumpeted into action. These are propitious moments! The funeral and the ascension of her son Charles are the so-called “pomp and ceremony” that is the latest entertainment act since Donald J. Trump to adorn the world stage. And like Trump its amusement factor is critical to its survival. The Vatican must be burning with envy!  No doubt the Pope – assuming he skirts (pardon the pun) the would-be king’s promotion of the Church of England and the inescapable derivative innuendo about the Papists – will somehow ensure that the event will profit the cash boxes of the Roman Catholic enterprise worldwide. Everyone adores a day at the circus, especially now as they have stopped retailing dancing bears trained on hotplates to jump for their lives. The British powers-that-be shall no doubt make a far more gripping arena for its audience by promoting an array of vintage automobiles, preposterous tiny hats, exposure to the sanctum sanctorum of cathedrals and castles and naturally lachrymose musical compositions.

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There is one historical date almost any Canadian student will recall in a flash.  ​​A federation of colonies in British North America – New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Quebec and Ontario – joined together to become the Dominion of Canada on July 1, 1867. Only months before that date R. Tait McKenzie RCA was born. I live in the municipality in which he was born; and, I am acquainted with the homes in which he lived in nearby Ramsay Township and the Mill of Kintail.

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Philology is derived from the Greek terms φίλος (love) and λόγος (word, reason) and literally means a love of words. It is the study of language in literary sources and is a combination of literary studies, history and linguistics. Philology is generally associated with Greek and Classical Latin in which it is termed philologia. The study of philology originated in European Renaissance Humanism in regards to Classical Philology but this has since been combined to include in its definition the study of both European and non-European languages. The idea of philology has been carried through the Greek and Latin literature into the English language around the sixteenth century through the French term philologie meaning a ‘love of literature’.

Generally philology has a focus on historical development. It helps establish the authenticity of literary texts and their original form and with this the determination of their meaning. It is a branch of knowledge that deals with the structure, historical development and relationships of a language or languages.

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