Thursday, January 21, 2010

The House of the Word




That is what my globe-trotting peripatetic aunt and uncle have dubbed our house.

With a screenwriter and a blogger/journalist and books everywhere in piles, we are the house of the word.

Here is the book they sent to my boys, here in the House of the Word, so they can learn to love words: Ounce, Dice, Trice.

Here is what I have learned so far (and never ever dreamed): My mother is a glot! A glot is someone who cannot bear to waste anything, who stuffs his attic full of treasures which nobody else wants, and who always eats the last chocolate in the box.

I also learned that my father often has a poose on his nose. A poose is a drop which stays on the end of the nose and glistens. It happens to ordinary people when they have colds, or when they come out of the sea for a chittering-bite.

Oh, and I fear our house is full of gonomies. A gonomy is any strange object that is difficult to name, that is curiously unlike anything else, and that serves no useful purpose. Gonomies abound in the houses of glots.

Oh dear, yes, they do!

If you have ever wondered if there is a word to describe some strange and bizaare situation that deserves to be named, I beg of you, look here! In Alastair Reid's Ounce, Dice Thrice.

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