The Filosopher's Daughter - Postscript

Felicity stood on the brow of the hill thinking about her new-found cowculus. A young farmhand, who happened to be born under the sign of the ram, asked her what to do with the field stretched out before them.

"You till it, arian" was her insightful reply.

Cowslips

Today has been a nice sunny day, so I wandered out for a pleasant stroll in the countryside. Crossing this lovely field full of cowslips, I stopped to admire them. But then I noticed a nasty bit of random litter – a dirty cup full of old Twix wrappers.
As I was reaching down to pick it up (and ‘Keep Britain Tidy’), this ugly youth leapt out from nowhere (they often do, these ugly youths). Shouting obscenities, he wanted this horrible Twix-laden cup to stay there. “Leave it!” he shouted, his top lip curling aggressively.
I tried to reason with him, but all I got back from him was a load of lip. The cheeky bugger. I feared he would attack me, so I gathered handfuls of cowslips (well-known for their peace-giving properties) and hurled them at the foul-mouthed yobbo. Most of them fell short and landed near the discarded cup.
So take heed. There’s many a cowslip ‘twixt Twixxed cup and lip.

We went out for another lovely walk today. In bright sunshine we wandered over the Upson Downs. After a while the footpath led us into Ply Wood (which used to be full of tradesmen practising). You could still hear some of their groans amongst the dark undergrowth, so we headed onwards to Balsa Wood, where it was a bit lighter. Then I saw this footpath sign for 'Edward Woodward Wood' and we thought it would be a good idea to have a look. But by the time we'd wandered through Edward Woodward Wood, we'd had enough of woods (well, you would, wouldn't you?). Finally, we reached what used to be an old hospital, set in its own grounds - which were now carefully tended gardens. And as we strolled hand-in-hand amongst the daffodils, I was so happy I asked my wife for a kiss. But she declined. And that's the first time I've been turned down on medical grounds.

The Filosopher's Daughter

Last week I was supping ale in our local rhyming slang inn, The Old Ship and Anchor, with the proverbial Farmer Giles. We talked about the old days when I sailed back and forth across the Solent with my trusted crew. I recalled one evening when they sat down for their well-earned meal after a day of splicing the mainbrace and other nautical things I was never too sure about, only for there to be unrest among the men. The ship's cook had prepared his signature dish of roast leg of lamb with rosemary, on account of his name being Rosemary Lamb and the crew pulled his leg about it. This dark and stormy night, both literally and metaphorically, he had rather overcooked it. The events of that night became part of local folklore, referred to in hushed tones as the episode of muttony on the Isle of Wight ferry. How I survived the night cast adrift on the seven sisters is a story for much later.

Not to be outdone, the rather competitive proverbial Farmer Giles told me how he could trace his family back to that great fellow filosopher Farmer John Stuart Giles. John had a beautiful daughter called Felicity who often helped him tend to the cattle. She was very concerned about their welfare and worked hard to maximise the happiness of the cattle. To achieve this, she realised that sometimes a cow had to suffer in order for the herd to benefit as a whole. She thus gave her name to the Felicity Cowculus, although some of the less kind villagers spoke of Felicity's Proclivity - her interest in maximising happiness in the hay when the sun shone.

As a footnote to this interesting little piece of history, Felicity was known to suffer from a profound lisp. When she told visitors that she worked in ethics, they often misunderstood that she worked in Essex. It is a small world, with the makings of an oxymoron for those who know.