In the days of auld lang syne (olden days), working men were given ample time off when they were afflicted with an ague (illness). Initially, because they were too weak to perform their duties as a schoolmaster, usurper, wig heckler, or whatever they did to earn their crust (money). But they were also entitled by law to a further fortnight (two weeks) off after they had beaten their disease in order to convalesce (laze about in order to regain their former level of strength). Nowadays, the working man is afforded no such luxury and must return to work the instant that his malady is beaten.
Fortunately, I am currently between jobs (unemployed) so I am able to honour the traditional period of convalescence in its entirety by remaining indoors dressed in a comfortable robe in the style of Hugh Hefner (smut baron).
As reported yesterday, I have successfully rejected all ferrules from my body, so must now recover my strength. Today is the 25th January, the third most Scottish day of the year, with the first being Hogmanay and the second being Bagpipe Day. Today the world celebrates the birth of the Scotch poet Robert Burns, and I planned to incorporate some poetry appreciation into my day of convalesence. Little in this world is more rousing than good poetry.
I read 'Poortith Cauld' ('cold poverty'), then 'Gude'en to you, Kimmer' ('good evening to you, girl'), then 'Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut' ('William brewed a measure of malted ale'), and finally 'Cock Up Your Beaver'. This intellectual nourishment quite revived me and eased my pain, as did the paracetamol I also took.
The poet Robert Burns
No comments:
Post a Comment