Sunday, June 3, 2012

Pouching


     Saint Swithun,  wanted to be buried outside of his church.  Not for him the stone tomb engraved to his memory.  He wanted his rest to be unmarked and under the gutters, so that when it rained he could feel the wet and mud and people could walk over him.  Of course after becoming a Saint there was a desperate hunt for his remains, because in those days any part of a Saint had great value. But I believe a bone or two must have found their way back into a church where they were left alone until probably Henry the Eighth.   

    But I begin to think the internet is a little like the Anglo Saxon Chronicles.  Rumor and misinformation, bold faced lying in pursuit of ambition, or a place at court. A total absence of anything remotely connected to Peer Review.  That sort of swithering around with the facts, the political class pays so well for.  But more likely the universe has come to the end of its expansion and we are now in the process of going backwards.  Which is an even better reason to drag out the ancient proverb and think of Saint Swithun when time comes to again dance for rain.


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