1st June 2009 To 1st December 2016
Briefly: from Middle English field, feeld, feld, from Old English feld (“field; open or cultivated land, plain; battlefield”), from Proto-Germanic *felþuz, *felþaz, *felþan (“field”), from Proto-Indo-European *pelh₂- (“field, plain”). Cognate with Scots feld, feild (“field”), North Frisian fjild (“field”), West Frisian fjild (“field”), Dutch veld (“field”), German Feld (“field”), Swedish fält (“field”). Related also to Old English folde (“earth, land, territory”), Old English folm (“palm of the hand”). More at Wiktionary
**Warning! The following link contains content unsuitable for children** Or adults for that matter.
‘Superstitious’ – From a early seventies Basil Brush cassette
There’s a funny story behind this one. I was replacing a spring loaded door hinge on a freezer but the design of the unit made access very difficult and a ordinary spanner wouldn’t fit in the space available. But a nut driver proved ideal.
Toulouse Lautrec – I made this one up at Leechpool Lane School when I was seven.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner (Abridged)
By Samuel Taylor Coleridge
It is an ancient Mariner,
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.
The original more tastefully coloured version of the diagram explaining the UK Court system was from florpenmeci.webco.me which now appears defunct.