Quadrivial Quandary:  Logophiles, Rejoice!  Each day we give you four unusual words.  Can you fit them all in one illustrative sentence?

Quandary Resolutions by MissTeriWoman

  • #7599 submitted 10/02/2018: orexigenic, Chanakya, cloister, lorem ipsum n.

    It was with a flourish that Timothy O'Leary pulled an impressive-looking document from his inside pocket and handed it to Constable Jenkins who stared at it:


    Death Certificate

    Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua; Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat; Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur; Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum;


    Cause of Death:
    Place of Death:

    Date of Death:

    Medical Practitioner attesting to Death:

    Police Representative:


    "it seems about right," said Constable Jenkins, taking a pen from his jacket pocket and filling in Name, Place, Date and his own name and rank, "what's the cause of death?" he asked young Desmond, who looked at his father, and O'Leary suggested: "maxime salvis," which young Desmond repeated for the constable to write it in, after which Desmond took the pen in his left hand and scrawled an unintelligible version of his name; "that'll do then," said the policeman, "thankyou Mr O'Leary, I'm in your debt," said the constable, handing the 'certificate' over before mounting his bicycle and pedalling back towards his Station: "you certainly are, son," said the Undertaker to the disappearing back as it rounded a bend; "you never spent any time in a cloister, or you'd know that Lorem Ipsum is cod-Latin," and he turned to his son: "right-o, me lad, let's get poor ould O'Shaughnessy out o there and snug in the hearse, for his last journey," and he belched, and a macchiavellian smirk showed that he was still a redoubtable Chanakya as he rubbed his stomach and the orexigenic effect of proximity to violent death reminded him that it was dinner-time: "let's get a move on, son, and we can pick up some fish and chips at O'Reilly's on the way!"

  • #7598 submitted 09/30/2018: fusspot, your mileage may vary, rodomontade, besorrow v.

    Now, as it happens, TP had called Timothy O'Leary, Joiners and Funeral Directors to the Bishopric, before making the call to Dublin, because he hoped that Enda's body could be removed from the bus before the schoolchildren who lived on the farms and small-holdings that side of the village should come across it, and for his part, Tim O'Leary had called Constable Jenkins at the RIC station – which implied more than the actual one constable – and they both arrived at the same time; O'Leary was certainly not a fusspot, he was a large, florid man in his seventies who had been laying folk in this part of the country to rest for fifty-six years, since he'd become apprentice to his own father, Larry, and he was accompanied by his youngest son, Desmond: "well, Constable Jenkins, your mileage may vary, but I should think this is a case of Murder, Most Foul, wouldn't you?" but Jenkins, while a very minor official in the Royal Irish Constabulary, wasn't wet behind the ears and saw exactly where this was heading: "until the Coroner declares it Natural, Suicide, Accidental or Misadventure, sure it isn't my place to hazard an opinion which would be purely guesswork, which is, of course, frowned upon in Legal Circles!" he had a pretty huge conceit of hisself for so lowly an officer, thought O'Leary, who ventured: "perhaps you'd like to call out Dr Johnstone to certify that ould Enda is dead, then, I wouldn't want to to risk the wrath of Legal Circles by hazardin a guess, bein as I'm just a Joiner, and not a Medical Practitioner, or even a Lawyer, at that, now, would you, Constable Jenkins?" well, as can be imagined, this homily put the PC into a besorrowed state of mind – he could see that from a purely practical state of things, Mr O'Shaughnessy was quite obviously dead, no doubt about it, but he also knew, from his encyclopaedic knowledge of the Rules and Regulations governing Police Procedures, that the declaration that Life is Extinct had to be made by a Medical Practitioner, prior to the removal of a corpse from the place where it had been discovered; oh! what a quandary for the mind of a rodomontade to grapple with, the endless permutations, never mind paperwork, which would have to bear his signature, thereby formalising his culpability should, at some future Inquest or Heaven forfend, Trial, he be asked "who exactly was it who certified Mr Enda O'Shaughnessy's Death, Constable Jenkins?" and could picture hisself, in his mind's practised eye, leafing through his notebook, knowing that the only answer which could eventually be dragged from his lips would be: "me, Your Honour!" and he almost shat hisself, there and then!

  • #7597 submitted 09/29/2018: fusspot, spot of bother, nocuous, amaro n.

    TP dialled the number in Dublin from the call box at the junction before the village, while Paddy kept a lookout, sitting on the wall and smoking a cigarette; he'd been a bit of a fusspot about being a lookout, asking TP what signal he should give if he saw a police car, or some Tans, or Auxies? or one of O'Shaughnessy's children, his wife, cousins or his aunt on his mother's side? "she's an awful blether, I wouldn't know how to avoid her seein you in the box, on the phone, talkin to someone in Dublin, it could be nocuous if she did, so what should I do, TP?" and tempted to say: "get her against the wall and shag her, she'll never notice me then," but didn't for fear Paddy might do just that, so: "whistle somethin loud," was all the guidance he gave, then dialled the number, let it ring three times, hung up, counted twenty seconds and dialled again; after five rings it was answered and a woman's voice, soft, Dublin, said: "Irish American Import Export, can I help you?" and he said: "a spot of bother with my last order, a bottle of amaro liqueur short!" and the woman asked for his name and reference number, so he said: "Coogan's Bar in Kinvara, reference 253SQ," at which the woman said: "thankyou Mr Coogan, I'm sorry for the mistake, but I'll pass this on to the warehouse and they'll contact you regarding another delivery, goodbye," and she hung up before he was able to thank her; his message would reach The Gaffer in short order and someone would probably call on TP at home tonight; he joined Paddy and smoked a cigarette as they strolled up the lane that led to the O'Shaughnessy farm; he had never done this before and felt sick at the thought of how poor ould Mairead would take the news – she'd maybe throw pots and pans at him, it was only natural to blame the messenger and he was tempted to send Paddy in but dismissed that thought as quickly as it had come; no, Enda's wife was a good honest woman, and deserved the truth, but not all of it, though no doubt details of the way O'Shaughnessy's body had been abused after his murder would spread once O'Leary, the undertaker, saw how he had been left!

  • #7596 submitted 09/28/2018: fusspot, supernumerary, trousseau, phynnodderee n.

    Enda O'Shaughnessy ran a one-man bus, it was his own, bought with the remains of the trousseau and dowry his wife Mairead had brought to the marriage, along with her parents small farm after they passed on, after he had been paid off when the local Riordan's bus company went bust; Enda was a fusspot of a man, but useful to The Squad, because a bus driver sees everything and, in a one-man bus (he had decided that a conductor was supernumerary, he could collect fares as well as drive) he is rather like a priest, for everyone talks to the driver, giving out tickets instead of absolution; he knew he could never be a farmer himself, hadn't been born to that life, but Mairead had and, along with their son and daughter, and the phynnodderee that farm-folk all believed in, they fed themselves and had a small surplus that went to the village butcher, the greengrocer, and sometimes the three-bedroom hotel when there were paying guests – though The Troubles had ended the regular English fishing and shooting parties in this part of ther country at least, there were still commercial travellers and the odd man-on-the-run who could be hidden in the loft till it was him to be moved on; sometimes the Auxies would stay there if they were having a shooting spree and when they did the locals stayed out of the bar, so the Tans had it to themselves, which made it a useful listening post for The Squad; when TP and Paddy reached the bus it was obvious that ould crabbit Enda was dead, a bullet in each eye, his tongue cut out and his ears slashed off: that was an Auxie trademark to denote a spy, who now could see, hear and speak no evil; and before they headed towards the village, TP cursed the bastard MacFarlane and swore that if it was in his power, he would bring his own retribution on the Anglo officer!

  • #7595 submitted 09/27/2018: clutchfist, xebec, orotund, tommyknocker, n.

    TP and Paddy walked along the access road towards the junction with the Dublin road and could hear the bus, still a good way off: "we're in good time," said Paddy, which was when they heard the bus stop, which was unusual, as there were unlikely to be any passengers along that way, and above the silence, a voice rang out, load and clear in the stillness: "you fucking clutchfist, O'Shaughnessy, taking the Rebel silver along with mine," an English voice, with the cultured Scottish tones of posh Edinburgh, and then the two gunshots, a brief second between them; "down!" whispered TP and pushed Paddy into the ditch by the roadside; a few moments later they heard an armoured car engine roar into life and through the long grass saw it lumber past on the main road like a xebec on the high sea; they caught sight of a Tan driver and beside him an Auxie officer smoking a cigarette and laughing, both men recognised him as Captain MacFarlane from Dublin Castle – he'd led a squad that had burned out several farm cottages last week, leaving the families roofless and with just the clothes they wore beside the smoking ruins: The Tommyknocker was what he was known as, an orotund man, a vindictive bully, dealing out death and destruction for pleasure as much as, if not more than, military or political reasons: "whit dae we dae noo?" – whispered Paddy, although there was no-one to hear them, where they lay for another five minutes, just in case the vehicle returned: ""we'd best check on ould Enda, though I doubt he'll be alive, then walk home, so," said TP, knowing that he'd have to tell Mrs O'Shaughnessy and then phone The Gaffer – this was information The Squad would need to know, especially as it concerned Captain MacFarlane!

  • #7594 submitted 09/26/2018: rotgut, apricate, habiliment, tholtan, n.

    Sitting lazily on the deckchairs, apricating in the late September sun in the untidy garden of the half-derelict tholtan, already showing signs of the reconstruction work they were undertaking, Padraig finished his beer and tossed the empty bottle into the bucket where it joined half-a-dozen others: "that's fuckin rotgut TP, don't ya think we could squeeze some better booze outa them?" but Tim Pat shook his head: "they're payin us tae work, Paddy, no tae drink, an it's only because o me skills in creative accountin that we kin afford this shite, so no rockin the boat, ok?" and Paddy grunted in acknowledgement of his pal's superiority in being able to skim a slice off the cost of bricks and mortar sufficient to provide anything to wet their whistles at the end of a day's hard graft: "ah, TP you're always on the ball, sure that's the reason we've got work at all, when half the town is laid off, I don't know what I'd do without ye, even if you do have the ugliest mug this side o Tipperary!" and far from being offended, TP took out his pack of Afton and handed his mate a cigarette: "the bus'll be along in half an hour, so we've time for a wee puff an then stow the tackle away an walk up to the road end – ould Enda O'Shaughnessy's drivin it this week an if we're so much as thirty seconds late he'll drive past without stoppin, he's a right gobshite, but I promised Emer I'd take her along to Mulligan's tonight so I daren't be late," and Paddy clambered up from the deck-chair and offered TP a hand up: "well never let it be said that Paddy McGinty was one to stand between a friend and the love o his life, I never have an I never will!" and TP laughed: "I'll make sure they put that on your headstone, Paddy, it'll give the mourners something to talk about!"

  • #7593 submitted 09/24/2018: spitfire, gamboge, glade, morceau de musée, n.

    Jubbly is a spitfire, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, say the chorus, but it's true – remember that time she was on a Northern Line train to Mornington Crescent and that funny little man in the gamboge trench-coat, a la Humphrey Bogart, got on at Goodge Street and sat opposite Jubbly and took a Bible out of his pocket and began to read it? yes, that's the one, the chap who runs his finger along the lines and whose lips move when he's reading; well, he kept glancing over at Jubbly, and sinking lower into the seat, until his feet touched the floor, by which time he was lying on his back, and Jubbly got the distinct impression that he was trying to look up her skirt! well, talk about a panther leaping into a dappled glade and seizing a little goat by the throat – Jubbly was up on her feet and towering over this small fellow, screaming at him like a banshee, caling him all sorts of perversions, with her hands around his throat and shaking him like a rag doll! it took five passengers to separate them, three trying to drag her backwards and the other two holding the poor little guy and hauling in the opposite direction; it was a bit like pulling a Christmas Cracker, but a bit more exciting; and at last, when the guard came along and blew his whistle and an uneasy peace was restored, Jubbly told the guard her side of the story, how she felt that the blackguard was molesting her with his eyes and wanting him charged as a Peeping Tom, and demanded that the guard call the rozzers, until he gave her a stern look and said: "this gentleman happens to be blind, Ma'am, and his Bible is a Braille edition and he doesn't realise that he moves his lips, but it's on account of his Mackintosh being smooth and the seats slippery that he slid down but he was not. and I repeat definitely NOT, looking up your skirt!" at which, the train having arrived at Mornington Crescent, Jubbly beat a hasty retreat and stepped onto the platform, but even then, couldn't resist pausing at the door and shouting at the blind man: "ye're a morceau de musée pour le Maison de poupée!" and cackled when he cocked his head, one hand behind his ear, as if trying to judge the direction from where she had shouted, and her parting words, as the train doors closed were: "aye, ye're blind as a bat, but ye're no corned beef, ur ye? ya wee nyaff!"

  • #7592 submitted 09/23/2018: gage, raunchiness, biannual, Omega point, n.

    This evening, the Melrose Branch of the Omega Point Society met in the back room of The Ship Inn for it's biannual Extraordinary General Meeting and the Secretary, Maude Lyttleton, informed the Chairlady, Daphne Dumbiedykes, that certain important items of business which had been on the agenda for the March EGM had not been discussed as a result of the commotion caused by the raunchiness of certain remarks made by one member to another; now, as it happens, Daphne did not need to be reminded of the incident, it having involved Father Mungo Macaneny SJ – a good friend and internationally renowned authority on Lady Griselda of Longformacus and her cousin, Sister Evadne Eglantyne – and Mrs Jubbly Johanssen (nee Janquers), Daphne's lifelong friend and confidant: "but how can I mention it without causing offence to one or the other?" she hissed, and Maude hissed back: "just refer them to Rule 22b, subsection 3a and sub-subsection 8qt of the Society's Standing Orders which states: 'personal remarks, whether intended to be either complimentary or derogatory in reference to another member's personal appearance, speech or habits, shall play no part in the ethical, moral, philosophical or transcendental deliberations of the Society and a breach of this Rule shall, on a first offence be punished by a gently reproving slap on the wrist, and if repeated or expanded upon subsequently, by the forfeit of a gage at the Chairlady's discretion, accompanied by a forceful punch up the bracket!' and that should shut them up!" and Daphne marvelled at Maude's encyclopaedic knowledge of the Standing Orders: "which, I must confess I've never bothered to read, never mind study," at which Maude, smiling enigmatically, replied: "me neither, maybe we ought to write them!"

  • #7591 submitted 09/20/2018: rummy, cherish, milieu, nonplus, n. and adj.

    So, as Blondin and Blondini bustled their way into the warm, snug Saloon Bar of The Jolly Roger, they missed the sight of the coach stopping at the side of the building and it's passengers step quickly through the Guest's Entrance and follow the Landlady upstairs to the main bedchamber: the Grand Panjoram, the Lord Invincible Kabell and his slave-girl, Columbine threw off their travelling coats and made themselves comfortable while the Landlady took their orders for supper, drinks and treats and hurried downstairs to the kitchen – it wasn't every day the Grand Panjoram visited and the Landlord was delighted to hear that the Lord and his entourage (slave-girl, valet, coachman and factotum) would all be staying the night and requiring food and drinks; he rubbed his hands together gleefully and told his wife to let the guests know that there would soon be entertainment in the Saloon, a pair of wandering minstrels had arrived and after they had eaten would be performing; the valet, coachman and general factotum played a hand of rummy while they waited for their supper, but the Lord Invincible enjoyed the milieu of wayside inns and though he undoubtedly cherished the company of his current slave-girl, there was plenty of time for the kind of pleasure she represented, and he betook himself down to the Saloon where in happy surprise he met two of his neighbours and fell in to their conversation which delighted him, as they were both unrivalled gossips and had all sorts of news and information on the comings and goings of many mutual friends and acquaintances; some time later, while Blondin and Blondini were performing and receiving good responses from the crowd, who had packed into the Inn as an alternative to being cold and damp outside, a mixture of locals and travellers, a number of whom made special requests, most of which the duo could accommodate, neither the singer nor her accompanist noticed at first the veiled girl who sat by Kabell, for she was not the only slave-girl in the room and as all dressed much the same, and all were veiled, none stood out particularly from the rest; but when Blondini began to sing that favourite ballad, her eye was caught by chance by a movement which was one of the slave-girls holding her veil slightly away from her face and he saw . . . . . and was nonplussed; his voice seemed to vanish in the smoke and the heat from the large open fire, the constant murmur of low level conversation among the patrons, and the shadows which moved about the walls; she felt faint, but was rescued by Blondin executing a quick segue into a lively polka, and a few of the younger couples even started to dance at the less crowded end of the room; it took a few deep breaths before Blondini was able to whisper to Blondin: "that's Columbine, the slave-girl with the fat, bearded geezer dressed like a Magistrate," and Blondini was able to reply, "I overheard some talk of him earlier, he's the Grand Panjoram, the Lord Invincible Kabell, quite a big-shot landowner in this area, can you manage to sing again now?" and when Blondini nodded, Blondin swung back into their regular routine; and as she sang, Blondini's eyes never left Columbine's veiled face!

  • #7590 submitted 09/19/2018: mizzle, Jolly Roger, atone, side-glass, v.

    But quite unbeknownst to Columbine, Lucifer and Little Levy Balquhidder, disguised as Blondin and Blondini, travelling minstrels, were already working their way around the habitable parts of Gor, singing for their supper and picking up any information which came their way as tid-bits of gossip, rumour, tales out of school; it was Levy who had come up with the plan, raddled up their parti-coloured costumes, used his skills developed as an infant cybernat back home in Scotland to hack into the Gorneto so that they were always one step ahead of the Gorsecs Force which was ever on the lookout for escaped slaves, eased Lucifer's aching limbs and sore feet with lenitive massage, and curtsied as Lucifer/Blondin bowed deeply in response to their audience's ovations when they finished their nightly show; it was also Levy – och, let's keep to their cover – Blondini, who sang the sweet song Columbine had always loved, and would hum even when they were both back among the other spirits, swirling around the Creator; but that is all by-the-by, and for the nonce, it is a might of darkness and mizzle, as through the rain and gloom the intrepid pair espy a wayside inn with the sign of The Jolly Rogeroh yes, even on Gor and far from the sea, for here Pirates be found aways inland, and law-abiding wayfarers take their lives in their own hands when they venture afield on such a night, but the lights were gleaming and they soon were upon the place: "perhaps this will atone for our futile efforts so far," said Blondin, and Blondini glanced at the faint moon, directly beyond and hidden by it is Earth, and she hummed the refrain she knew so well, but gazing into the sky she failed to see a side-glass in a passing coach where the curtain parted for an instant and a wan face peeped out and saw . . . . . !

  • #7589 submitted 09/17/2018: columbine, warrant, chiliad, Nimby, n.

    The problem, thought Columbine, with being a prisoner on Gor, was that even if Little Levy managed to reach Gor, which was unlikely, there was no warrant or mandate to allow an Earthling to demand access to, or the freedom of, a Slave; there were a chiliad of abducted Earthlings here, enslaved, the property of Gorean Masters or Mistresses who would never consent to their release; the prevailing view here was that Earth's objections to the customs of Gor was that of Nimbys, pathetic, self-centred, believing that they were right and everyone else was wrong; if Levy did get here, he would only be putting his own freedom at risk. for there was no chance that he would be able to find and rescue Columbine – unless . . . . . it was probably only grasping at straws, but if Lucifer had received Columbine's plea, and been able to organise something with Levy, there might, just possibly be a chance. a slim one, a very slim one, but at least a possibility; that was the trouble about being an optimist, it gave one hope, and on Gor, hope was usually crushed, mercilessly!

  • #7588 submitted 09/16/2018: capitano, cummerbund, resplendent, Bechdel test, n.

    "So who was this Capitano schmuck?" asked Percy, as P had by now been named by Nigel, and Digby, otherwise D, replied: "see that cave painting, the one with a tall guy in a kilt and resplendent in a crimson cummerbund?" at which Percy strolled closer and examined the painting carefully: "he wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test, that's for sure – whoever the artist was, he's caught that lecherous look that spells out C A S T I N G CO U C H!" and Digby had to agree, particularly having read some of MacFarlane's exploits in his Journal: "a very lecherous man for sure – have you noticed that rather a lot of the kids under five here have blue eyes though all the men and women have brown?" but Percy had moved closer to the painting and was studying it: "it's amazing, the eyes are so real, they seem to follow you around the cave," and Digby called to him to come back into the furthest corner to see if the effect still worked there, and when they were together, he whispered to Percy: "it's not just that, sometimes the eyelids are closed and I'd swear it winked at me one time!"

  • #7587 submitted 09/15/2018: capitano, jumbo, melancholia, phalanstery, n.

    It was clear from the Diary or Journal they were reading that el Capitano, one Sir Parlane MacFarlane had been a 13th Century Jumbo, a man given to bouts of melancholia only cleared by excessive debauchery – which he described in fulsome entries of all sorts, many of which the two former Oilygarchs were horrified by; how the Cavemen, the Cavern dwellers, had been turned into a phalanstery by this man, they could not grasp; but one thing was clear from the final entries – which they had skipped to, leaving the bulk of the Journal in happy ignorance of – that he had somehow educated them, taught them English, in the peculiar form of the Dundonian Dialect of which he seemed inordinately proud, to read and write and, in only a few short years, to achieve a God-like status, and then, in mid-sentence, to disappear, like a thief in the night; but such had been his charisma that the Cavemen were content to wait for some kind of Second Coming! from their conversations with Nigel, the garrulous Chieftain o the Pudden Race, to whom MacFarlane, just before his disappearance, had bestowed a special gift: the wristwatch – one of those chronometers which in addition to the time of day, had various other functions and it was P who discovered the particular buttons which, when pressed, could display the number of steps it's wearer had completed each day, the location co-ordinates, height above or depth below sea level, and a calendar, which showed the present date as September 16th 32,018 BC!

  • #7586 submitted 09/14/2018: capitano, rantistirion, advert, aegis, n.

    And now that he grasped the dialect form, the peculiarly Dundonian Dialect, which to the casual listener seems only to contain vowels with nary a consonant, D – the former Russian Oilygarch, though he had no memory of that life, nor of his relationship to P, his companion since they had both awakened in the valley just a short while before - was able to converse with the Chieftain o the Pudden Race, as that person had proudly described himself and his fellow Cavern Dwellers, and first he asked him all the usual - stupid - questions: "where are we?" – "here," "what year is it?" "ah dunno," "where is Melrose?" "dinnae as moi, div ye think ah'm stupit?" and quickly moved on to more pertinent ones: "that thing on your wrist, what do you call it?" "it's ma aegis, he sed it'd keep us aw richt!" "who said that?" "him wha gied it tae us," "what was his name?" "el Capitano! or Parlane, Parlane MacFarlane, it wis him as tocht us hoo tae speak wurds, tae reed n richt tae, see!" and he waved to the wall and one of his people carried a brand over and showed P where an Alphabet had been written, perhaps with a stick of charcoal, and beneath each letter a number of words such as Apricot, Banana, Haggis, Keith, Monkey, Penis, Rantistirion and Zanzibar; D was confused, he had no idea who this MacFarlane person might be, nor why he should teach these strange people such pointless words, in the Dundonian Dialect; then the Chieftain said he would like to advert his visitors to one of the tribe's greatest and most powerful possessions, "it's whit we cry The Bible, it's aw aboot the Saviour o the Hale Pudden Race, whit he sed an dun, whaur he ganged aboot, an the Future, whit he cried the Eternal Mystery! wud ye like tae touch it? but mind, iffen ye try tae eat it oo'll hae tae cut aff yer goolies an stuff them doon yer throat and then cut aff yer heid!" and D promised and even crossed his heart, that neither he nor his friend would dream of eating the Immortal Words, and so the Chieftain – who's name, given him by MacFarlane, was Nigel – led them to a little cell towards the rear of the Cavern and unwrapped a package and showed them The Journal of Sir Parlane MacFarlane, Bart!

  • #7585 submitted 09/13/2018: eiron, cornfield meet, taradiddle, ogham, n.

    Now, as the Neanderthal chief spoke, clearly displaying an eironical sense of self-deprecating humour in his personality, D began to discern the unspoken – which is to say, retained – consonants which were barely audible among the strong vowels and at last, with all the suddenness of a cornfield meet, came the realisation that, without a word of a lie (for this writer is not given to taradiddle, being interested only and solely in recording the absolute truth about the startling events which have occurred and she relates here) the chief was speaking in English, and not even in standard English, but in a particularly singular form of English – and how a Russian Oilygarch should come to be in possession of the experience, and, indeed, memories, to distinguish that one single form, this writer is quite unable to explain, for D himself is at a loss – and that being Dundonian, the dialect unique to inhabitants of the City of Dundee, and exclusively in the spoken form, for Dundonians are as adept in their use of the English Language as anyone else – you only have to peruse the pages of the Sunday Post, the Weekly News, Beano and Dandy to realise that despite it's spoken form, Dundonians write in English and not some archaic form of ogham! but as that were not surprise enough, the reader will understand his bewilderment when he noticed that the decorative bangle he wore on his right wrist, was, in fact, a wristwatch! collapse of stout party, and P rushed to his aid, only to be pulled away by some of the community's strong-men, and could only watch in disbelief when the tribe's Witch-Doctor cleared some space around the patient, already showing signs of peripheral cyanosis, and then set to work to deliver faultlessly executed CPR!

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