Roots is Roots

My favourite language to swear in is Africaans.

I’m a Yorkshire lass so this is a dilemma and I am what is known as ‘on the ‘orns of it,’ my little tangerine treasure.

If I take to Africaans every time I see the air turn blue; every time I prick me finger on the thorn from tha’ rose, noboby’ll know what the bloody nora I’m sayin’. I don’t mean to bang on about it but there it is.

That’s what happens when you stray off the path: you become like ice-cream in the rain: diluted; less yourself at the same time as being more, but when push comes to shove, roots is roots.

There was this one day and there I was in the allotment of a frosty morn, in me cups (oh, yes, multiple cups,) and I’d woke up in the shed, like the bleedin’ ice queen on her throne. Desperate for a whizz, I stumbled out to the bushes and found Madge pegged out like she was part of someone's washing in among the thorns. They’d snatched at ‘er clothes see, and she couldn’t fight free. Deaf to her pleas for help, all I could do was stand and stare. For all the broadening of my ‘orizons I forgot every word of Russian and Africaans I’d learned to express me sen and out slipped the loudest ‘I’ll be buggered’ I’d ever uttered.