Well we’ve had a lovely Christmas Day so far. Chris regaled me with his comic song while I was having my cup of tea in bed this morning and later, after a delicious turkey crown roast dinner, he repeated his performance for my mum and our friend and neighbour, Alan – much more entertaining than PlayStation (Chris’s singing, not Alan, although Alan is certainly very playful and interesting in his own right).

After our delightful guests had left I tried on one of my Christmas presents (which I had bought and wrapped on the behalf of my better half). I was just taking a photograph of myself to show you how cute my present is when the doorbell rang. As Chris opened the front door I could hear it was my friend Catherine and her three girls. Chris came downstairs chuckling.

“Sally, they can’t stay because they’re dashing off to Manchester”, (not ‘through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh’), Chris called,  “You must go up and see them – some of them look like they are related to you.”

Even before I reached the top of the stairs they saw me and I saw them; Catherine (dressed as her normal self), two pretty snowflakes, a slim polar bear and a not so slim polar bear all began to laugh. Catherine and I (and perhaps the whole of Dawlish) had had the same eye for bargains at our local Sainbury’s store and bought up novelty onesies at half price. I love mine and I’m going to keep it on for the rest of the night; it may be a bit hot this far south of the Arctic Circle but  I’m not going to growl about it. I might have to turn off the central heating and, if Chris complains of the cold, I shall have to give him a bear-hug.

I knew there had to be a word for it. I couldn’t be the only one. One of the most comforting consequences of using the Internet is discovering that, no matter how uniquely weird we think we are, we are not alone; someone out there has pondered over the same questions, shared in the same lines of thought or even become a collector of flags – maybe even the same particular type of flags that have caught your eye. By now you must have guessed that a vexillologist is a flag collector.

My own particular brand of vexillology is limited to the little flags that represent the countries of my blog readership – they come up on my site stats to let me know where you all come from. A few weeks ago I became so enchanted by the growing number of different flags from around the world visiting my site that I began to keep a record by copying and pasting them on a Word document, and now I have thirty-one, thanks to today’s newcomer from Croatia (and very pretty it is). I love the fact that, although the majority of my readers hail from Britain, USA and Australia, I seem to be gaining ground in Europe, Scandinavia, South America and the Middle east – tomorrow the world!

My special thanks go to the regular reader from Italy. I’ve had a bit of a thing for all things Italian ever since I came across Montalbano (The Italian Detective) – the television series from Italy – while I was house-sitting in Jimboomba (Australia) last year; Chris obtained the whole series and we’re currently re-visiting each episode for a second time. Montalbano is played by Luca Zingaretti (born on November 11th, like me). I can’t help but wonder if Luca is responsible for the jolly Italian flag that appears on my stats, or is it the handsome Cesare Bocci who plays Mimi? But it’s not a vexing matter even for a vexillologist of sorts.

Wherever you may be, I hope you all have a very happy Christmas!

Vexillology

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

For the album by Deadmau5, see Vexillology (album).

Flag of the International Federation of Vexillological Associations. It depicts a sheet bend.

Vexillology is the “scientific study of the history, symbolism and usage of flags or, by extension, any interest in flags in general”.^[1] The word is a synthesis of the Latin word vexillum (“flag”) and the Greek suffix -logia (“study”). It is formally defined by the constitution of theInternational Federation of Vexillological Associations (known by its French acronym FIAV) as “the creation and development of a body of knowledge about flags of all types, their forms and functions, and of scientific theories and principles based on that knowledge.”

The term was conceived in 1957 by the U.S. scholar and vexillologist Whitney Smith and first appeared in print in 1959 (12). It was originally considered a sub-discipline of heraldry,^[1] and is still occasionally seen as such. A person who studies flags is a vexillologist.Vexillography is the art of designing flags; a person who designs flags is a vexillographer. A person who simply likes, admires, or enjoys flags is a vexillophile.

Since 1965, an International Congress of Vexillology (ICV) has been organized every two years under the auspices of FIAV. The 2013 ICV was in Rotterdam, Netherlands.^[2] Internet activity of vexillologists is centered on the Flags of the World website and mailing list.

On 29 November 2013, John Christian Vaughan was featured on the front page of The North Shore Times, with the announcement that as a result of his efforts, the termsvexillographer along with vexillography, which had first appeared in newsprint in an interview with Vaughan carried by the same publication in 1976, will be included in subsequent editions of Australia’s Macquarie Dictionary. ^[3]

“Look at that rainbow,” Chris said as we were driving back from Newton Abbot yesterday (the last of the Christmas shopping, hopefully).

“You’re always seeing rainbows,” I commented. It was the second time he had drawn my attention to them in as many days and I had begun to think that Chris was getting a thing about rainbows (another funny little habit to curb).

“And when it’s dark I look for stars,” he said rapturously in a falsetto voice.

I knew what he was alluding to and I giggled.

“I don’t know what our guests will think when they use our bathroom,” Chris added.

“They’ll think it’s cute,” I replied.

“So long as they don’t open the box,” he said.

“Why would they open the box?”

“Well I did! I thought it was inviting me look inside and I was quite shocked when I did!” he said in mock horror (hopefully).

At this juncture I ought to enlighten you about the box in question, which was a gift from dear friends who came to see us in the summer. The box is made from beautifully crafted cardboard painted a dark brown, is approximately three inches square, and, on the lid, is a brown plaque (not dental, but ornamental) inscribed in cream lettering with the message –  “WHEN IT RAINS LOOK FOR RAINBOWS ~~~~~~ WHEN IT’S DARK LOOK FOR STARS” (illustration below). Although designed as a vehicle to express the nice sentiment, the sturdy box can also be used to hold trinkets… or other things.

For some time the empty box stayed by my side out in the studio, then it moved down to my bedside table, and on from there into one of the pigeonhole compartments in my wardrobe cupboard. One day, when I was cleaning out all my cupboards, I came across a ten year old mould of my lower jaw, complete with teeth covered with a plastic mould of my teeth, which I used to wear at night in order to rectify a little problem I had with my jaw. Although the problem has long since become a thing of the past I have to keep the mould just in case. The white plaster mould (no illustration, thankfully), upon which the clear plastic guard is mounted, looks for all the world like the lower jaw of a skeleton; it measures about two and a half inches at its widest point, and it fits extremely well inside the the box…

“It wasn’t simply because it fitted so well that I decided to put it in the box. Can you guess my thinking?” I tested Chris (back in the car – not in the back of the car).

“I believe so but tell me anyway,” Chris smiled.

“Well,” I started to elucidate, “do you remember that old joke – ‘Darling, your teeth are like stars, they come out at night!’?”

“I thought that was the connection,” Chris answered.

Of course he did – this is the man who keeps seeing rainbows.

“Do you want to have a go?” asked this clown who came up to my mother. (Men often approach my mother.)

“I like your waistcoat,” she said flirtatiously. (She rather likes a bit of interaction with the opposite sex.)

“Thanks,” he said, “but would you like a go? I reckon you’d be good at it.”

“Are you some kind of clown?” she queried.

“My wife thinks so,” answered the clown.

“Mum, he’s got a unicycle,” I said and added, for the benefit of the clown, “Mum’s nearly blind.”

“That would be the least of your worries,” he grinned, offering my mother the unicycle.

A few minutes later the clown put on his red nose and kindly posed for some photographs before waving and disappearing through the store.

Funnily enough, my youngest brother, also, has cycling plans for our mum – he wants her to go on the back of an old tandem he has just purchased.

Anyway, now you know why we go to Trago Mills nearly every week – you just never know what you’re going to come across.

“Isn’t she lovely?” At least, I think this long-lashed beauty is a she. My sister, Mary, who is the regular farm-sitter (I just fill in while Mary is away in Australia), told me that all the animals on Rosie’s farm are female – I can’t say that I’ve ever checked to see, which must have been apparent to Rosie when one day I was talking to her about Harriet the pig.

“Why are you calling our boy pig Harriet?” Rosie asked.

We laughed – I guess the difference must be obvious, just not to townies.

Likewise, I made a mistake with the donkeys by calling one of them Alfreda.

“Alfred and Charlie – Charlie, not Charlene,” Rosie laughed.

Maybe this is the answer….

As I was lying in bed, unable to sleep not only because of the disturbance coming from the sea wall repairs but also from the pangs of hunger, I dwelled upon something Chris had said, not for the first time, recently.

“Sally has a good appetite”, he spoke to our very slim friend Caroline.

At the time we were discussing the eating habits of Caroline’s aging father, with whom she now lives; she was concerned that, although quite hale and hearty, he doesn’t eat well unless she is there to preside over the meals. Our size eight friend looked at me.

“Sally can’t go without food for more than a few hours without going berserk,” Chris exaggerated.

“Five hours or more – it’s to do my pituitary and thyroid glands, not my ‘appetite'”, I tried to explain, yet again (Chris is in the habit of introducing this topic at every occasion that food is mentioned).

But that was some days ago. Now I was back on the Dukan Diet, the only diet that works for me when in England (in Australia I don’t need it – the heat and the life-style suit me better). Now hunger was gnawing at me (not enough protein in the house) and I was lying in bed wondering what Chris had meant by a “good appetite”. Did he mean that my appetite was greater than others? If so, my appetite would often be disappointed by the starch-free, sugar-free regime I continually try to impose on it. Did he mean good for a skinny person but too much for a not so skinny person? Or did he mean a normal healthy appetite? In which case, why mention it at all? And anyway, why not talk about his own appetite, not mine, if he likes the subject so much? Who of us is the secret eater and chocoholic? (I’ll give you two guesses.) I decided I would take him to task in the morning.

Chris has promised never to bring up the subject of my appetite again. He had meant to say “healthy”, of course. For two and half days I have stuck to Dr Dukan’s diet for ascetics and I’ve lost three pounds (not including today’s donation of the same amount to Wikipedia). And next week it will be Christmas – oh joy!

After three consecutive busy nights on the sea wall repairs here at Dawlish (just in front of our house) it really seems like it’s all night long….

Well, my friends, the time has come
Raise the lid on what aint fun
We know there’s work to be done
But why go on and on?

Everybody whinge, let’s all take a stance
Can’t get lost in wild romance
We’d like to sleep just like you, or siesta, whatever
Come on and cringe along
Desperate to sleep like you, or siesta, forever
Come on and sing along

All night long, all night, all night long, all night
All night long, all night, all night long, oh yeah

Hear the thrum frum about forty feet
Men in orange making new concrete
Life was good when we could sleep
Now those days are long gone

Feel it in your heart, cannot be consoled
Lights and engines take control
Tides keep going and coming, no resta, forever
Since they came along
Orange Army keep on coming, no resta, forever
Come on and sing my song

All night long, all night long, yeah
All night long, yeah, all night long…..

Everyone you meet they’re pile-driving, indiscreet,
All night long, yeah
I said, everyone you meet they’re pile-driving a hundred feet,
All night long, hard to be patient, aint no good

‘Cause sometimes it’s all night, all night,
All night, all night, all night
All night, all night, all night