I knew there had to be a word for it. I couldn’t be the only one. One of the most comforting consequences of using the Internet is discovering that, no matter how uniquely weird we think we are, we are not alone; someone out there has pondered over the same questions, shared in the same lines of thought or even become a collector of flags – maybe even the same particular type of flags that have caught your eye. By now you must have guessed that a vexillologist is a flag collector.

My own particular brand of vexillology is limited to the little flags that represent the countries of my blog readership – they come up on my site stats to let me know where you all come from. A few weeks ago I became so enchanted by the growing number of different flags from around the world visiting my site that I began to keep a record by copying and pasting them on a Word document, and now I have thirty-one, thanks to today’s newcomer from Croatia (and very pretty it is). I love the fact that, although the majority of my readers hail from Britain, USA and Australia, I seem to be gaining ground in Europe, Scandinavia, South America and the Middle east – tomorrow the world!

My special thanks go to the regular reader from Italy. I’ve had a bit of a thing for all things Italian ever since I came across Montalbano (The Italian Detective) – the television series from Italy – while I was house-sitting in Jimboomba (Australia) last year; Chris obtained the whole series and we’re currently re-visiting each episode for a second time. Montalbano is played by Luca Zingaretti (born on November 11th, like me). I can’t help but wonder if Luca is responsible for the jolly Italian flag that appears on my stats, or is it the handsome Cesare Bocci who plays Mimi? But it’s not a vexing matter even for a vexillologist of sorts.

Wherever you may be, I hope you all have a very happy Christmas!

Vexillology

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

For the album by Deadmau5, see Vexillology (album).

Flag of the International Federation of Vexillological Associations. It depicts a sheet bend.

Vexillology is the “scientific study of the history, symbolism and usage of flags or, by extension, any interest in flags in general”.^[1] The word is a synthesis of the Latin word vexillum (“flag”) and the Greek suffix -logia (“study”). It is formally defined by the constitution of theInternational Federation of Vexillological Associations (known by its French acronym FIAV) as “the creation and development of a body of knowledge about flags of all types, their forms and functions, and of scientific theories and principles based on that knowledge.”

The term was conceived in 1957 by the U.S. scholar and vexillologist Whitney Smith and first appeared in print in 1959 (12). It was originally considered a sub-discipline of heraldry,^[1] and is still occasionally seen as such. A person who studies flags is a vexillologist.Vexillography is the art of designing flags; a person who designs flags is a vexillographer. A person who simply likes, admires, or enjoys flags is a vexillophile.

Since 1965, an International Congress of Vexillology (ICV) has been organized every two years under the auspices of FIAV. The 2013 ICV was in Rotterdam, Netherlands.^[2] Internet activity of vexillologists is centered on the Flags of the World website and mailing list.

On 29 November 2013, John Christian Vaughan was featured on the front page of The North Shore Times, with the announcement that as a result of his efforts, the termsvexillographer along with vexillography, which had first appeared in newsprint in an interview with Vaughan carried by the same publication in 1976, will be included in subsequent editions of Australia’s Macquarie Dictionary. ^[3]

“Look at that rainbow,” Chris said as we were driving back from Newton Abbot yesterday (the last of the Christmas shopping, hopefully).

“You’re always seeing rainbows,” I commented. It was the second time he had drawn my attention to them in as many days and I had begun to think that Chris was getting a thing about rainbows (another funny little habit to curb).

“And when it’s dark I look for stars,” he said rapturously in a falsetto voice.

I knew what he was alluding to and I giggled.

“I don’t know what our guests will think when they use our bathroom,” Chris added.

“They’ll think it’s cute,” I replied.

“So long as they don’t open the box,” he said.

“Why would they open the box?”

“Well I did! I thought it was inviting me look inside and I was quite shocked when I did!” he said in mock horror (hopefully).

At this juncture I ought to enlighten you about the box in question, which was a gift from dear friends who came to see us in the summer. The box is made from beautifully crafted cardboard painted a dark brown, is approximately three inches square, and, on the lid, is a brown plaque (not dental, but ornamental) inscribed in cream lettering with the message –  “WHEN IT RAINS LOOK FOR RAINBOWS ~~~~~~ WHEN IT’S DARK LOOK FOR STARS” (illustration below). Although designed as a vehicle to express the nice sentiment, the sturdy box can also be used to hold trinkets… or other things.

For some time the empty box stayed by my side out in the studio, then it moved down to my bedside table, and on from there into one of the pigeonhole compartments in my wardrobe cupboard. One day, when I was cleaning out all my cupboards, I came across a ten year old mould of my lower jaw, complete with teeth covered with a plastic mould of my teeth, which I used to wear at night in order to rectify a little problem I had with my jaw. Although the problem has long since become a thing of the past I have to keep the mould just in case. The white plaster mould (no illustration, thankfully), upon which the clear plastic guard is mounted, looks for all the world like the lower jaw of a skeleton; it measures about two and a half inches at its widest point, and it fits extremely well inside the the box…

“It wasn’t simply because it fitted so well that I decided to put it in the box. Can you guess my thinking?” I tested Chris (back in the car – not in the back of the car).

“I believe so but tell me anyway,” Chris smiled.

“Well,” I started to elucidate, “do you remember that old joke – ‘Darling, your teeth are like stars, they come out at night!’?”

“I thought that was the connection,” Chris answered.

Of course he did – this is the man who keeps seeing rainbows.

“Do you want to have a go?” asked this clown who came up to my mother. (Men often approach my mother.)

“I like your waistcoat,” she said flirtatiously. (She rather likes a bit of interaction with the opposite sex.)

“Thanks,” he said, “but would you like a go? I reckon you’d be good at it.”

“Are you some kind of clown?” she queried.

“My wife thinks so,” answered the clown.

“Mum, he’s got a unicycle,” I said and added, for the benefit of the clown, “Mum’s nearly blind.”

“That would be the least of your worries,” he grinned, offering my mother the unicycle.

A few minutes later the clown put on his red nose and kindly posed for some photographs before waving and disappearing through the store.

Funnily enough, my youngest brother, also, has cycling plans for our mum – he wants her to go on the back of an old tandem he has just purchased.

Anyway, now you know why we go to Trago Mills nearly every week – you just never know what you’re going to come across.

“Isn’t she lovely?” At least, I think this long-lashed beauty is a she. My sister, Mary, who is the regular farm-sitter (I just fill in while Mary is away in Australia), told me that all the animals on Rosie’s farm are female – I can’t say that I’ve ever checked to see, which must have been apparent to Rosie when one day I was talking to her about Harriet the pig.

“Why are you calling our boy pig Harriet?” Rosie asked.

We laughed – I guess the difference must be obvious, just not to townies.

Likewise, I made a mistake with the donkeys by calling one of them Alfreda.

“Alfred and Charlie – Charlie, not Charlene,” Rosie laughed.

Maybe this is the answer….

As I was lying in bed, unable to sleep not only because of the disturbance coming from the sea wall repairs but also from the pangs of hunger, I dwelled upon something Chris had said, not for the first time, recently.

“Sally has a good appetite”, he spoke to our very slim friend Caroline.

At the time we were discussing the eating habits of Caroline’s aging father, with whom she now lives; she was concerned that, although quite hale and hearty, he doesn’t eat well unless she is there to preside over the meals. Our size eight friend looked at me.

“Sally can’t go without food for more than a few hours without going berserk,” Chris exaggerated.

“Five hours or more – it’s to do my pituitary and thyroid glands, not my ‘appetite'”, I tried to explain, yet again (Chris is in the habit of introducing this topic at every occasion that food is mentioned).

But that was some days ago. Now I was back on the Dukan Diet, the only diet that works for me when in England (in Australia I don’t need it – the heat and the life-style suit me better). Now hunger was gnawing at me (not enough protein in the house) and I was lying in bed wondering what Chris had meant by a “good appetite”. Did he mean that my appetite was greater than others? If so, my appetite would often be disappointed by the starch-free, sugar-free regime I continually try to impose on it. Did he mean good for a skinny person but too much for a not so skinny person? Or did he mean a normal healthy appetite? In which case, why mention it at all? And anyway, why not talk about his own appetite, not mine, if he likes the subject so much? Who of us is the secret eater and chocoholic? (I’ll give you two guesses.) I decided I would take him to task in the morning.

Chris has promised never to bring up the subject of my appetite again. He had meant to say “healthy”, of course. For two and half days I have stuck to Dr Dukan’s diet for ascetics and I’ve lost three pounds (not including today’s donation of the same amount to Wikipedia). And next week it will be Christmas – oh joy!

After three consecutive busy nights on the sea wall repairs here at Dawlish (just in front of our house) it really seems like it’s all night long….

Well, my friends, the time has come
Raise the lid on what aint fun
We know there’s work to be done
But why go on and on?

Everybody whinge, let’s all take a stance
Can’t get lost in wild romance
We’d like to sleep just like you, or siesta, whatever
Come on and cringe along
Desperate to sleep like you, or siesta, forever
Come on and sing along

All night long, all night, all night long, all night
All night long, all night, all night long, oh yeah

Hear the thrum frum about forty feet
Men in orange making new concrete
Life was good when we could sleep
Now those days are long gone

Feel it in your heart, cannot be consoled
Lights and engines take control
Tides keep going and coming, no resta, forever
Since they came along
Orange Army keep on coming, no resta, forever
Come on and sing my song

All night long, all night long, yeah
All night long, yeah, all night long…..

Everyone you meet they’re pile-driving, indiscreet,
All night long, yeah
I said, everyone you meet they’re pile-driving a hundred feet,
All night long, hard to be patient, aint no good

‘Cause sometimes it’s all night, all night,
All night, all night, all night
All night, all night, all night

With all the noise and lights blazing down on the sea wall of late I haven’t been sleeping too well, and I have a headache, so how about a good joke? Well, I think it’s funny. This is another one from Diana’s After-Dinner joke book…

In a National Hunt race at Aintree, a jockey takes a nasty fall and breaks his collarbone before a highly important race. The trainer hurriedly employs the services of an old pro who is a little past his sell-by date. In briefing the the old pro about his horse, the trainer insists that the jockey must assist the horse over the jumps by yelling, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ as he approaches each fence. He assures him that the horse has a great chance of romping away with first place provided the jockey follows his orders.

The old jockey mounts the horse and canters down to the starting line. He is sceptical about the trainer’s orders and fears that the other jockeys will laugh at him if they hear him saying ‘1-2-3 jump!’ before each obstacle; he is sure they would think he had lost it!

The race begins and the horse rapidly builds up a lead of two lengths prior to the first jump. As they come into it, the jockey decides to ignore the 1-2-3 bit and the horse bulldozes straight through the fence, nearly unseating the rider in the process. The same thing happens with the next two fences, in spite of the tugs on his bridle. There are bits of twig and leaves now hanging off both horse and rider, and most of the field have passed him by. Other jockeys are shouting derisively as they stride past. The old pro is feeling that he’s been given a rum ride as the horse crashes through yet another fence. Now four lengths adrift at the back and with only five fences to go, he thinks he has nothing to lose by trying the stupid ‘1-2-3 jump!’ And lo and behold, the horse sails over over the fence so smoothly that he has already closed the gap with the horse ahead.

The jockey thinks, “Well blow me down, if this works I may save my reputation in the weighing room afterwards”. Next jump, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he sails over again. Only three to go and he’s past the two back markers. Next jump, ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he’s in the middle of the pack; one more jump and he’s running third, and going like a train. The other jockeys are shouting at him but he’s ignoring their taunts. The last fence; ‘1-2-3 jump!’ and he’s over, neck and neck with the leader. It’s a two furlong run to the finish and his horse is flying. Over the line nearly two lengths ahead and he’s feeling elated, despite the bits of twig still stuck under the saddle.

The owner and trainer meet him in the unsaddling enclosure.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” the trainer yells. “That was the most dreadful exhibition of jockey-ship I’ve ever seen. You didn’t talk him over the fences at the beginning.”

“The horse couldn’t hear me,” he lies.

“The horse isn’t deaf, he’s blind!” says the trainer.

Just recently I have been seeing flashes of flashers as I fast forward through the adverts on anything we’ve recorded on Channel Four; also, there have been newspaper photographs of nudists being interviewed on morning television shows. I haven’t watched the Naked Village programme or seen the interviews – can’t say I’m that interested in films of naked people (with the possible exception of Brad Pitt). But, of late, you cannot get away from seeing snippets of them! This particular lot of naturists are currently enjoying their “fifteen minutes of fame” owing much to the fact that they live in a Hertfordshire village called Spielplatz (German for playground – watch out on the see-saw!), which was founded as a nudist colony in 1929 (as I discovered in the Mail Online). However, this information is by-the-by, simply a bit of background to set the flavour for today’s blog post…

This morning, while Chris and I were still in bed, the telephone rang. Now I would have let it ring but Chris is conditioned to jump up and run to catch it. I heard it ring first (Chris is, as you must know by now, a tad deaf) so, with a little urgency in my voice, I said:

“The telephone is ringing.”

Rather naughtily, I wondered if Chris would jump out of bed and rush up the stairs, as per normal… because he was stark naked at the time. He did! But the caller had rung off by the time he reached the telephone.

“Darling,” he called down from the top of the stairs, “it was an Australian number. Perhaps it was Mary trying to get in touch. Do you want to come up and check?”

Well, what else could I do? Unusually for me (considering the coldness of the season), I had discarded my convict-style onesie during the night in favour of my birthday suit. Mindful of the men in orange working on the sea wall repairs below, I ran as-quick-as-a-flash up the stairs; there before me was the unusual sight of a nude Chris sitting cross-legged at his desk (modesty preserved by the angle of his crossed legs). I don’t know why I should find that funny but I laughed like Calamity Jane when she saw ‘Wild Bill’ Hickok dressed as a squaw (my favourite bit of the film).

“What’s so funny?” my husband asked.

“Nothing,” I replied, trying to keep a straight face.

Time was of the essence – the caller, perhaps my dear sister, would be waiting for a return call – and Chris repeated the number aloud so I could check through our address and phone book. All the while, as I bent over to look through the book on the kitchen table, I kept having mental images of the nudists from Naked Village. At last I found the number, not Mary’s but our friend Roland (the Bird man from Brisbane); it was a mobile number, too expensive to call abroad on the regular home phone service – it would be better to call it through the Skype phone service. And while Chris, still nude, sat at his desk and made the Skype number arrangements I stood in the doorway to the kitchen and looked at my refection in the slimming mirror at the end of the hall. Yet again I was laughing like Calamity Jane.

“Oh dear,” said Chris, knowing that I would be thinking about writing my blog sometime soon.

Presently, Roland picked up his receiver.

“Hello, this is the Naked Village,” I laughed.

There was a pause while Roland’s brain computed, then he chuckled. Of course he knew it was me; on occasions I am Scottish Janet, Doctor Finlay’s housekeeper, or Suzy Wong from the Chinese laundry – why not the Naked Village?

Chris just said, “Oh dear!”, and patted my bare bottom as he passed by.

Below are some of those images that flashed through my mind…