Today is St. Crispin’s Day. He is the patron saint of shoemakers, or cobblers if you can avoid being confused with the edible type of cobbler. Gosh, we haven’t had a cobbler for dinner in ages. If only I had the requisite ingredients in the freezer. I can manage the cobble bit on the top - flour, butter, milk and cheese. But the bit that lies beneath? Poor freezer pickings today, I’m afraid, unless I can be the inventor of the Spinach, Pea and Ginger cobbler. Now there’s a hideous thought.
Anyway, back to St Crispin. Shoemakers, or cobblers, celebrate with goodly doses of alcohol which could explain the invention of the Croc. There are dubious rhymes to be had that recognise the carousing that takes place. For example:
‘The twenty fifth of October,
Cursed be the cobbler who goes to bed sober.’
Or:
’Now shoemakers will have a Frisken
All in honour of St Crispin.’
Take your pick. They are both terrible and not a patch on the song I’ve just made up for Day 5 of the Christmas Story 2019. Oh yes, I am cracking on with it. Just over 7,500 words at the moment and I’m only 5 days in. I’m warning you now that it’s going to be a more in-depth read than the malarkey you are used to reading during the festive season. You might want to schedule a slot in your diary every day from 1st to 24th December. Or vandalise your internet connection as an avoidance tactic. Your choice. Or maybe, if I complete the whole story before 1st December I could publish it as an e-book. Then you could read at your leisure and I could spend the resulting £3.75 on a hot chocolate at my local cafe. Hmmmmm....
This is St Crispin. He appears to be carrying a stick, a large bag (presumably full of shoes in want of repair), the requisite Catholic rosary beads, and a basket of salad leaves. Maybe some sort of exotic cabbage. I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t care. I’m not a fan of shoes. I go bare foot as much as possible, and after almost 54 years, not a bunion in sight!
It is also the day that George II died, in 1760. His ghost still shuffles around Kensington Palace, listening to arguments and stopping every now and then to check for wind. Outside wind, not his own. A favourable wind will bring news via ships from Hanover. Poor George. It must have been a right Royal bind being so far from home.
There’s a lot of wind blowing around the Palace of Westminster at the moment. King George might want to go there for a change. But I bet he’ll soon get fed up of the same old arguments. I know I am.
Anyway, back to St Crispin. Shoemakers, or cobblers, celebrate with goodly doses of alcohol which could explain the invention of the Croc. There are dubious rhymes to be had that recognise the carousing that takes place. For example:
‘The twenty fifth of October,
Cursed be the cobbler who goes to bed sober.’
Or:
’Now shoemakers will have a Frisken
All in honour of St Crispin.’
Take your pick. They are both terrible and not a patch on the song I’ve just made up for Day 5 of the Christmas Story 2019. Oh yes, I am cracking on with it. Just over 7,500 words at the moment and I’m only 5 days in. I’m warning you now that it’s going to be a more in-depth read than the malarkey you are used to reading during the festive season. You might want to schedule a slot in your diary every day from 1st to 24th December. Or vandalise your internet connection as an avoidance tactic. Your choice. Or maybe, if I complete the whole story before 1st December I could publish it as an e-book. Then you could read at your leisure and I could spend the resulting £3.75 on a hot chocolate at my local cafe. Hmmmmm....
It is also the day that George II died, in 1760. His ghost still shuffles around Kensington Palace, listening to arguments and stopping every now and then to check for wind. Outside wind, not his own. A favourable wind will bring news via ships from Hanover. Poor George. It must have been a right Royal bind being so far from home.
There’s a lot of wind blowing around the Palace of Westminster at the moment. King George might want to go there for a change. But I bet he’ll soon get fed up of the same old arguments. I know I am.
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