What does the stupid intranät know, indeed? Not much of any importance! I prefer ancient dictionnaries, myself. They know all the words.
Sad as I am about your having this restrictive mind, I couldn´t help but look up suie/fuligineux (my vocabulary is restricted due to too much contact with the "pub humour" of irish gals I used to meet here in the south-west of France). & Oh! Seven sisters or ladies in lordypants, I´m so happy to finally have found out about the epithet I am mostly confronted with, at least by those who try to read what I write: "the unsurpassable opacity of your comments" for instance, as stated by restingpedant whose style undoubtedly consists of club blazer blazing clarity only, tells me I may not be Joyce but can do obscure if only I put my Messy mind to it. But then, the epithet fits in so nicely with where I don´t but insist on living all the same: in this perpetual State of Couchant!
I wonder, whether the whole Dordogne (now owned by britons as Aquitaine used to be), where I just found proof of growing potty at fiftyone by finding my dream home, an aged and dignified house that has not been renovated to death, yet; counts as couchant? It certainly is into sleeping beauty, as a place for that kind of rest. It´s Donne poetry in stone and only costs what a small apartment would cost here in this pretty enough town yet provides acres of landscape with an oak wood (I never knew, I wanted one but now I do) full of several sources to fuel fairytales I may want to write, there. I´ll meet Mr. Hood and a gal in a red one and no surprise. Sigh. Now, what I need to do, is add a few zeroes to my meagre salary and go live a Grimm life!
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Date: 2013-07-23 09:36 am (UTC)Sad as I am about your having this restrictive mind, I couldn´t help but look up suie/fuligineux (my vocabulary is restricted due to too much contact with the "pub humour" of irish gals I used to meet here in the south-west of France).
& Oh!
Seven sisters or ladies in lordypants, I´m so happy to finally have found out about the epithet I am mostly confronted with, at least by those who try to read what I write: "the unsurpassable opacity of your comments" for instance, as stated by
I wonder, whether the whole Dordogne (now owned by britons as Aquitaine used to be), where I just found proof of growing potty at fiftyone by finding my dream home, an aged and dignified house that has not been renovated to death, yet; counts as couchant?
It certainly is into sleeping beauty, as a place for that kind of rest.
It´s Donne poetry in stone and only costs what a small apartment would cost here in this pretty enough town yet provides acres of landscape with an oak wood (I never knew, I wanted one but now I do) full of several sources to fuel fairytales I may want to write, there. I´ll meet Mr. Hood and a gal in a red one and no surprise. Sigh. Now, what I need to do, is add a few zeroes to my meagre salary and go live a Grimm life!