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Showing posts from October, 2012
The other day at breakfast a visiting American student expressed her impatience with the way the British sign their texts – and the occasional email – with an x. ‘What is that about?’ she said, wrinkling her nose. When I arrived two years ago I was equally mystified. A new friend lent me my first mobile and I embarked on a perilous voyage through the murky waters of British texting. When I received a message with an x, I blinked. Are we twelve? I wondered. Packed inside that x was dolphins and fairies and ponies and best friend bracelets and necklaces and desperate attempts to symbolize feelings in early attempts at love letters. It made me think of a high-voiced schoolgirl a la Baby Spice. British women seem to use it more than British men, though L said he used it with his male friends. (They are, however, very posh.) What’s more, I received texts and emails from near-strangers with x’s on them. It was obviously no deep sign of affection, just an encrypted gesture. Before I knew it,

October is the cruellest month

It's coming to the end, now. So I thought I ought to celebrate this, my favourite dying month, with one of the voices in my head. The name - of it - is 'Autumn' - The hue - of it - is Blood - An Artery - opon the Hill - A Vein - along the Road - Great Globules - in the Alleys - And Oh, the Shower of Stain - When Winds - upset the Basin - And spill the Scarlet Rain - It sprinkles Bonnets - far below - It gathers ruddy Pools - Then - eddies like a Rose - away - Opon Vermillion Wheels - Emily Dickinson