Daily Archives: November 8, 2018

Heart to heart

The Silent Eye

“I don’t get it,” said my son. “We’re an island… how can we be short of water?” I had been telling him about the shocking state of the Derwent Valley reservoirs. I have seen them very low before, but never this low. The water is no more than a trickle in the lake bed and the villages drowned at their creation are once more feeling the sun on their stones. We discussed desalination, technology and our acceptance of water-on-tap in developed countries. From there, we went on to other countries, where the populace is not so lucky and water may have to be drawn from a dirty well several hours walk from home. My son continued, “I mean, if seventy per cent of the earth’s surface is covered with water, and, if it all comes from the sea to begin with and goes back into the water cycle, how come

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Names Matter: nimmy nimmy not…

deer day 058

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…Well, she felt that horrud. Howsomediver, she hard the king a coming along the passage. In he came, an’ when he sees the five skeins, he says, ‘Well, me dare I don’t see what ye will ha’ your skeins ready tomorrer night as well, an’ as I reckon I shorn’t ha’ to kill you, I’ll ha’ supper in here tonight.’
So supper and another stool was brought for him and down the tew they sat.
Well, he hadn’t eat but a mouthful or so, when he stops and begins to laugh.
‘What is it?’ says she.
‘Why,’ says he, ‘I was out a huntin’ today, an’ I got away to a place in the wood I’d never seen afore. An’ there was an old chalk pit. An’ heerd a sort of hummin’, kind o’. So I got off my hobby, an’ I went right quiet to the pit, an’ I looked down. Well, whar should there be but the funniest little black thing yew iver set eyes on. An’ what was that dewin on, but had a little spinning wheel, an’ that were a spinning a wonnerful fast, an a twirlin’ that’s tail. An’ as that span sang:
‘Nimmy nimmy not… I’m tha’ Tom Tit Tot…’
Well, when the mawther heerd this, she fared as if she could ha’ jumped outer her skin for joy, but she di’nt say a word.
Next day, that there little thing looked so full of malice when he came for the flax. An’ when night came, she heerd that a knockin’ agin the winder panes. She oped the winder, an’ that come right in on the ledge. That were grinning from are to are, an’ Oo! Tha’s tail were twirlin round so fast.
‘What’s my name?’ that says, as that gonned her the skeins.
‘Is that Solomon?’ she says, pretendin’ to be afeared.
‘Noo, t’aint,’ that says an’ that come fudder inter the room.
‘Well, is that Zebedee?’ says she agin.
‘Noo, t’aint,’ says the impet. An’ then that laughed an’ twirled that’s tail till yew couldn’t hardly see it.
‘Take time, woman,’ that says, ‘next guess, an’ you’re mine.’ An’ that stretched out that’s black hands at her.
Well, she backed a step or two, an’ she looked at it, and then she laughed out, an’ says she, a pointin her finger at it:
‘Nimmy nimmy not… Yar tha’ Tom Tit Tot…’
Well, when that hard her, that shruck awful an awa’ that flew into the dark, an’ she niver saw it noo more.

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