I had to translate the word “buzz” from French to English several times in a marketing context – créer un buzz – and it reminded me of “what’s the buzz – tell me what’s a’happenin” from Jesus Christ Superstar. I wondered if it meant the same. The honeysuckle at my front door smelt heavenly and was all abuzz with bees. To try to share the sensory experience with you I took a picture of it, but the computer refused to recognise my camera. Built-in obsolescence. I got it the day the twin towers were nuked. It was a present from my mother. I suppose I could get a card reader and salvage the pictures from the card... today I bought a 2 MB card for my digital recorder – watch this space, or, rather, listen to this space…
I love the French verb “butiner” which is also what bees do. (Originally I wrote 'what a bee does'). I have been to at least two fancy dress parties dressed as a bee to be able to flit from flower to flower. Or was it because I like Black and yellow stripes... (Another one I attended as Cleopatra with a black wig and a rubber snake round my neck.) I also like to think of reading as a way of gathering the nectar and pollen of other people’s minds. Why is Wensday spelt Wednesday? Choose day, chews day…
Trite: 1. Lacking power to evoke interest through overuse or repetition; hackneyed. 2. Archaic Frayed or worn out by use.
[Latin tritus, from past participle of terere, to wear out; ]
I had already used the words libel and slander and needed something for calomnier so I looked it up and there was “traduce”, from the Latin “traducere”. For one fleeting moment, I thought maybe "traduction” existed in English? No. The noun is traducement. (faint echo: seducement). Dragging something from one language to another. But the very act of transposing anything from one code to another necessarily involves loss. Even one person passing on what they have heard without switching languages. We crave precision but live in the "à peu près". Egregious = outstandingly bad
In the mountains, there were lots of tiny star-like flowers all over the place. And these faintly phallic ones, whose name I forget… Alpine something or other. Strange how “alpine” has come to mean “relating to mountains” the way hoover means vacuum cleaner.
As the camera was not working, I took some pictures with my phone. If you look carefully enough, you will see two dark tunnel holes through which “le petit train jaune” went hooting.
I made up a sentence to help my American friends with their French: “Some of the blackberries on the wall are not ripe” she whispered. (“Des mûres sur le mur ne sont pas mures” murmura-t-elle). And even in such a cursory glance at life – as I was marvelling at the sparkling brilliance and pure beauty of the clear mountain stream I remembered Mekas
– I can’t sign off without a mention of Marginal Melon. The desert that Marty and Eva ordered (to remember who ordered it I remembered whose teeth went black) at Le Canard Gourmand. Our venerable veritable institution of a local restaurant where Xavier, the ultra-creative chef, doesn’t like making deserts… The ironic thing is that Marty’s starter was a savoury dish (fresh foie gras flipped in the frying pan) served with vanilla sauce. The desert was partly dyed black by encre de seiche... octopus ink. Which is pretty salty. Ok if used for colour only, as suggested in the description (the macaron) but when added to whipped cream the result was likened to shaving foam…
As the camera was not working, I took some pictures with my phone. If you look carefully enough, you will see two dark tunnel holes through which “le petit train jaune” went hooting. 
