Perplexing things about living in another country

- There are squirrels running everywhere, and no one cares.
- Pedestrian crossings do not make a noise when they change from 'don't walk' to 'walk'. I'm having to get into the habit of actually watching the signal.
- Where is the coffee?
- Getting used to a cat in the house rather than a dog. And consequently, to not jumping up and going to yell at her if you hear her eating or scratching in another room - she's eating and disposing of the eaten as she ought to be, not getting into the garbage.
- Rabbits ignore you. They sit beside the path and watch you placidly, and if you walk towards them, they'll eventually deign to lollop away a few metres, rather than transforming into a panicked flash of white tail heading for the nearest cover. And, here's the thing - they are not ill.
- No, really, that substance is not coffee. Where is the coffee?
- Retraining one's brain to default to calling people - and thinking of them - by title + surname, rather than just first name.
- I have no dog.
- Alright, that's an espresso coffee, but is it so hard to make it a good one?
- Crossing roads is dangerous. Suddenly I have to retrain every instinct about where the traffic is coming from. And apparently you can make a right turn (ie, a left turn) at a red light here.
- Having multiple university libraries available at once, just a short walk from each other.
- Squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, rabbits and deer - and woods just across the road! This would be a prime dog-walking area!
- If I had a dog.

Real life does its intruding thing, again

So, on Sunday I took just my boy down to the park, leaving the other beagle and our young brittany at home. And he hadn't had a walk in the morning, because I'd been working, so he was terribly enthused and went into happy hyperzoom mode as soon as we got out of the car, and - then he was lying on the ground screaming in pain.

Turns out there was a nail sticking out of a post at just beagle-shoulder height, and he had an inch-deep hole in his side, and our vet closes early on a Sunday (it was only 4 pm!) so I had to take him to the emergency clinic, and yes, that was as expensive as it sounds.

So now Oliver has seven stitches in his shoulder, though he seems to have forgotten it hurts at all and doesn't understand why he has to stay inside and keep warm and rest and not, eg, go rolling around in the mud outside with the puppy.

(Yes, his lip regularly gets stuck like that, mostly when he's trying to look serious.)

I have told him that when it heals he will have a terribly manly scar, just like Major in Footrot Flats. As his personality when it comes to pretending to be terribly manly (just so long as no one bigger than him comes along) is very similar to the Dog's, I think he should be pleased. Here is the Dog standing up to Major in an Oliver-like manner:


And here is the Dog's snapshot of Major's scar.

So Oliver will look manly like that, just as soon as the painkillers wear off and he stops falling over every time he tries to lift his leg.

Anyway. He's doing alright so far, which leaves me free to contemplate other things, such as the fact that he just cost me $1030. So much for savings. Looks like going international to do my postgrad courses may be off the cards after all, so it's back to replanning my future. Again.

In other dog-related news, we just heard that Annie, one of our two old terriers who still live with our parents, has died - probably also on Sunday. It isn't really a surprise, but it would have been nice if it could have happened when my parents weren't on holiday in Europe.

So, all up, between panicking over dogs, nursing dogs and mourning dogs, not been a terribly productive week here.

Merry Christmas from the Kilpatrick household!

Every family has Christmas traditions, right? Each has something unique that they do that they can be fairly sure no one else is doing right at that moment. For example, two years ago as we hung our newly iced gingerbread men on the christmas tree, we could be fairly sure that no other family in Australia had a gingerbread Lucia di Lammermoor, swaying sensuously in her blood-spattered white nightdress. I think I even managed to make a dagger for her, possibly out of slivered almonds.

This Christmas, gingerbread forms were dictated rather by chance. For example, someone lost his head accidentally. So of course, he had to be consoled by translation into an approprate semi-Christmas figure:


He isn't wearing a dress. The Green Knight is far too manly to wear a dress. It is an embroidered robe. With almond embroidery on the belt.

His flashing red eyes did run a little, though.

Unfortunately, we didn't have any horse-shaped cutters, so his colour-coordinated steed lacks a little grandeur:


But his friend/adversary is very pretty, in appropriately Christmassy colours, and with an almost-pentangle on his shield.

I'm not sure why Gawain has no eyes. Either there was some solemn symbolism about his inability to see truly due to being distracted by earthly beauty, or I had used all the cashous by this time.

In any case, he probably got the better deal:
Poor Grendel is not only missing an arm, and some claws from his remaining hand, but he was strung up to the tree upside down - and as a result, an enterprising beagle has nibbled his head.

In fact, limblessness and missing bits seemed to be a theme this year, right down to the story my younger sister told with some of the old Christmas tree ornaments:



From left to right, Mrs Dobbins (missing her legs, an arm and the loop of string on top of her head due to her enthusiastic habit of rolling down the street), Clive the Headless Rocking Horse (ran afoul of a beer company for criticising its objectification of women, a subject about which he feels very strongly despite the fact that he is neither female or human), various soldiers who lost their bits in battling the evil chicken minions of the Easter Bunny, and another horse who's quite literally gone off his rocker and also has to wear his head slung over the left side of his rump for fear of over-balancing. I don't remember his story, except that he now runs a bicycle shop.

A slightly more serious attempt at decoration (I disapprove of Yule logs that involve feral plants like holly):


... and my two dogs worn out after a long morning beach walk.


Not that Snowy went on the walk. He was worn out by all his quiet sleeping while the rest of the family (including both beagles) was on a morning beach walk. He's seventeen, blind, deaf and doddery, lives with my parents because he'd be far too disoriented if I took him with me to Melbourne, and we've been expected him to die suddenly for about three years.

He quite likes Oliver, though I don't think Oliver really notices him.

I also think it's fair to say that we were the only family in Adelaide or farther playing the dictionary game from the Oxford Latin Dictionary (we found it's easier than the English, because it's much easier to find a word that no one knows), and making up family line-by-line stories involving Chrétien de Troyes, Cleopatra and Amanda Vanstone.

It works like this. Everyone in the circle has a piece of paper. They write a man's name up the top, followed by the word 'met'. They fold the top down to hide the name from the next person, then pass the paper on. On the next paper, they write a woman's name, then fold it down and pass it on. Everyone contributes a sentence to each story, following a consistent pattern to preserve some coherence. In this case, the pattern was:
[man's name] met [woman's name] at [place]. He [said/did something]. She [ditto]. [repeat actions, alternating he/she, a certain number of times agreed in the group]. The upshot was that... [something happened].

For example:

David John Kilpatrick [my father] met
Cleopatra at
Windsor Castle.
She raised one finely plucked golden eyebrow at his choice of garter.
He tickled her tummy.
She rose onto her tiptoes and wiggled her ears conspiratorially.
The consequence was they got married and had lots and lots of babies and two rather scrawny cockatoos.

Or:

Margaret Thatcher met
Kevin Rudd [our Prime Minister] at
the Chelsea Flower Show, where he was judging the cyclads and she was dressed as one.
He remembered that he'd always had a phobia about that kind of female and began to run around in circles, squawking and flapping his arms about.
She replied, "But sir, where do you put your Grumpy Old Mysterious Stranger Who Holds The Information Necessary For The Quest, But Who Talks Only In Cryptic Epigrams?"
He rabbited on a bit longer, but finally shut up when they started playing some of his favourite music.
She raced after him, intending to catch him by train, but then remembered that she'd previously rigged all the points.
The upshot was that he joined the Australian Labour Party and developed a terrible phobia of floral print.

I don't know how we got such an appropriate final line, given whoever wrote it can't have known that the story had previously contained either a Labour PM or flowers.

Merry Christmas and New Year, and may you lose no limbs, or even claws!

A new project: the arrival of Adam Murimuth

A terribly exciting parcel arrived for me yesterday.

It contained a book, entitled:



This is the 1889 edition of the chronicles of Adam of Murimuth, perhaps the most level-headed and well-informed of all chroniclers of Edward II's reign. And yet, so far as I have been able to find, no edition has been published since, and it has never been translated. I don't aspire to remedy the first - yet - but the second I can and will do.

And if I think it's good enough, and think myself capable of undertaking the full exercise, I will go on and do everything necessary to make a critical edition in both languages, for my MA or PhD.

So yes, it is a very exciting parcel, particularly as it was a long hard search through the dark and woodsy wilds of the internet to find it. It's kind of out of print, after all.


The book is exciting enough from a codicological perspective, never mind the contents. The edges are rubbed, the spine a little cracked where it connects to the front cover, and it will need careful handling, but nothing serious. And if it becomes serious, it can be rebound. The pages are in perfect condition - and I mean perfect, which I will get to with delight in a minute. The pastedowns are thin enough that I can see quite clearly the binders' methods inside the front and back covers. The first and last pages bear the imprint of "Wigan Free Public Library", and inside the front cover someone has jotted in lead pencil "228 - FP".

But the two most exciting features are, firstly, this little insert:

Why is the "to" space blank? Was it not presented, in the end, or did someone just forget to fill in "Wigan Free Public Library"? Does the same insert appear in every volume of this publication? The slip is glued into the spine, but after binding. Were any copies for public sale, as the printer's note on the title page implies, or was the distribution of them entirely within the gift of the Treasury? If not entirely, what percentage? And - Her/His! Victoria died in January 1901, so this presentation must have been very shortly after that - so soon that they were still using the stacks of these slips printed off before her death, and amending them by hand (in black ink, slightly faded to brown). And did the Library break up? Was it returned to the royal Stationery Office, Westminster? I got it from Abebooks.com, an online American amalgam of various secondhand and rare books stores - specifically, from Second Story Books in Rockville, MD (whatever MD is - no, I don't have America's states' abbreviations memorised, and I don't believe many Americans have Australia's states' abbreviations memorised either, and we have far fewer). I think I shall write a slip containing my information, the year and reason I bought it, the source and the condition it is in now, and attach it under the first slip. Some books deserve to have their histories known.

The second and perhaps most exciting thing is the state of the pages. No one has ever read this book before. Look:


Save for the first quire, and one quire later on in the book, none of the pages have been cut. This presents me with a dilemma. I have to cut it myself if I want to read it. But in doing so, I will be spoiling its uncutness. I will be submitting it to common use.

The solution, I have decided, is to find a beautiful old penknife that is worthy to cut it, and to use that to cut only the pages of Murimuth's chronicles, leaving Avesbury's intact. Such a wonderful and unique surviving feature of a volume cannot be completely obliterated in the name of vulgar research, after all!


And, just a thought. Why is it that Edward II's chroniclers largely deplore him and, at best, either tolerate him or describe him with relish as a martyr and, in doing so, present a really unflattering and graphic picture (hi, Geoffrey le Baker!), while his son's chroniclers entitle their works things like "De Gestis Mirabilibus Regis Edwardi III"? He should have made favourites of men who were better at PR. Like Roger Mortimer.

... Well, he was. Until the power went to his head and he started setting himself up as the new King Arthur.

Also, because these were on my camera though I do not remember taking them, have some pictures of two much adored beagles. My lad, Oliver, is on top so that he can cuddle her better because he thinks she's the best thing ever, and my sister's girl, Solace, is snuggled in under her with the self-satisfied and rather coy expression of someone who has a man to look after her but has him right under her thumb, thank you. Except when she looks at me, when she takes on her pleaselove/feedmeI'lldoanything look. Beagles do that look very well. I think it's the ears. Also, that's a girl who knows how to apply (and use!) her eyeliner. While Oliver looks cheerfully and sleepily oblivious to feminine wiles, so long as he has a nice warm Solace-smelling body to cuddle.