The dog days of August.

In theory ended two days ago.  They have nothing to do with dogs being hot, or hot dogs, or your dogsies barking because they are hot.  They are to do with the rising of Sirius the dog star and were named by the ancient Romans, who were accustomed to leave Rome in the dog days, not least to escape the mosquitoes swarming from the marshes around Rome.

It’s amazing that a name gifted to us by people who brushed their teeth with urine and goat milk has stuck and better that the name should stick than the urine and goat milk, though what do we know?* It’s a mere half century since the television adverts enticed us with: You’ll wonder where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent.

Covid is on the rise again.  The doc next door has it and the S&H is trying to get over it. Apparently it is thought to be linked to stress.

Stress, now there’s a thing.  I don’t remember anyone having stress when I was a child.  I do not remember my father ever saying he was stressed out, despite being married to my mother.  I think stress must be a modern invention.  Quite recent, I believe.  I don’t think I had any stress as a young teacher in the Seventies.  I worked for five years in a school that was designated as being in an Educational Priority Area, just as I was leaving.  Then the staff were given extra wages to persuade them to stay, which most were going to do anyway, mainly because they lived nearby.  My first teaching practice, in a really difficult area, might have been called stressful.  One day a child pulled a knife on me and held the point an inch above my hand.  I just took it off him and asked what the problem was.

I’m not currently stressed, I’m lethargic.  Maybe I’m sickening for something.  Perhaps I’m annoyed that my skin, this summer, is too waterlogged to get a suntan.  There’s a load of stuff I could get on with but I just can’t be bothered. On the other hand the OH is off all day doing archery, so maybe I’ve just relaxed.  There are things I need to do.  There’s a load of miniatures needing china painting.  I should get out between the showers and garden.  I should write a blog, oh, I’m doing it.

Read a book?  Write a book?  Make some cards?  Have a cup of tea?

Can’t be bothered.  It’s the dog days of August, you see.  Well, it was.  Now it’s the hangover of the dog days of August.  It’s a week to the arrival of the GDD.  It’s the S&H’s 42nd birthday.  It’s the time in between.

Nothing is happening on the news, either.  Of course it isn’t, the politicians who make so much news by being objectionable and annoying are on holiday. The papers are full of silly season rubbish.  What ever happened to the mystery newspaper person who would haunt the traditional British seaside resorts, who you had to approach with the relevant newspaper under your arm and say: You are Mystery Harris of the Daily Trumpet and I claim my five pounds!  Remember that?

I should perhaps have rolled my elastic bandages up my legs, tucked my dress into my bloomers and be standing ankle deep in the sea.

That’s what the dog days are for!

Bit tricky here inland.


*What I would really like to know is: your urine or someone else’s?

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