Whenever they get into trouble as terrible as this, the Tories have a traditional remedy. That is to dethrone the leader. While these byelection defeats have thickened their despair and triggered another bout of Tory hair-pulling, there is no serious agitation to topple Mr Sunak. Replacing him would mean installing their fourth leader since the last election. This is surely too preposterous even for the Conservative party. The Tory leader is in a deep, deep hole and they are all stuck down there with him in the inspissated gloom.
Whenever they get into trouble as terrible as this, the Tories have a traditional remedy. That is to dethrone the leader. While these byelection defeats have thickened their despair and triggered another bout of Tory hair-pulling, there is no serious agitation to topple Mr Sunak. Replacing him would mean installing their fourth leader since the last election. This is surely too preposterous even for the Conservative party. The Tory leader is in a deep, deep hole and they are all stuck down there with him in the inspissated gloom.
What new word did you learn today?
The same one! I read a social media post quoting this earlier.
Whenever they get into trouble as terrible as this, the Tories have a traditional remedy. That is to dethrone the leader. While these byelection defeats have thickened their despair and triggered another bout of Tory hair-pulling, there is no serious agitation to topple Mr Sunak. Replacing him would mean installing their fourth leader since the last election. This is surely too preposterous even for the Conservative party. The Tory leader is in a deep, deep hole and they are all stuck down there with him in the inspissated gloom.
What new word did you learn today?
Not a new one to me: learned as a medical student: “ inspissated”= a collection of impacted dried out secretions such as in an imcompletely drained abscess.
Maybe just the thing to describe a gaggle of Tories but hey? what would I know as an Antipodean pox doctor?
After reading about the death of Matthew Perry I had to look up what 'metrosexual' means. Of course Mrs Vole wonders whether I'm aware of any normal cultural stuff!
Clinodactyly.
I had to attend the fracture clinic and physio after breaking a bone in my hand. The consultant was far more interested in my bent little finger on each hand. He called it bone setters finger. The physio supplied the correct name.
Statistics vary depending on sources. It is a congenital condition, often co-existing with other conditions, frequently Downs and other syndromes.
In my case it is hereditary, but has skipped two generations. My first cousin also has the condition.
To manifest mental states in the body. I didn't know I knew the word, but it floated up when I was thinking of how to explain worrying about abdominal discomfort gave me abdominal discomfort.
I learned PLANGENT yesterday: "having an expressive and especially plaintive quality." It was used to describe, in part, the voice of a soloist from a performance I recently attended. The performance was of J.S. Bach's St Matthew Passion, and the soloist was... my daughter.
I learned “bripe” technically it’s a brand name - but it is a pipe in which you brew and drink coffee, and can be used as a verb to describe the act of doing so,
A two-fer. Crenel, and merlon. Atop a crenellated battlement, the crenel is the gap, and the merlon is the "tooth" between the gaps. You shoot through the crenel then hide behind the merlon while you reload. ∏_∏_∏_∏_∏_∏_∏
I'm trying to remember a word I knew many years ago - something like crepitant. I learned it in the forensic medicine part of my law degree, and it described a baby's lungs once it had taken its first breath. Crunchy, like pressing down on a fresh snowfall. Crep-something. I wonder if that came from the Latin crepare?
I did forensic medicine because it was regarded as an easy option. I really wish I hadn't. Bits of that course still haunt me.
Crepuscular never means what I feel it ought to mean. I usually get a mental image of something large and horrible leaving a trail of slime across the floor as it goes. I think it's the combination of "crept" and "puscular" that suggests something quite unpleasant, muscly with pustules. Sorry.
Crepe (noun):
Etymology: "Crepe" comes from the French word "crêpe," which is ultimately derived from the Latin "crispus," meaning "curled." Crepe is a thin, often wrinkled fabric or a type of pancake with a lacy or wrinkled texture.
Crepe (verb):
Etymology: The verb "crepe" is derived from the noun "crepe." It means to create a wrinkled or crinkled texture, often in fabric or paper, to produce a crepe-like appearance.
Crepuscular (adjective):
Etymology: "Crepuscular" comes from the Latin word "crepusculum," which means "twilight" or "dusk." It is used to describe animals or activities that are most active during the dawn or dusk hours.
Crepitus (noun):
Etymology: "Crepitus" comes from the Latin word "crepitus," which means "a cracking or creaking sound." It is often used in the medical context to refer to abnormal sounds, such as crackling in the joints or tissues.
Crepey (adjective):
Etymology: "Crepey" is an informal term derived from "crepe." It is used to describe skin that has a wrinkled or crinkled appearance, similar to crepe fabric.
Crepitate (verb):
Etymology: "Crepitate" is derived from the Latin word "crepitatus," which means "to crackle" or "make a crackling sound." It is used to describe the act of producing crackling or popping noises.
Creperie (noun):
Etymology: "Creperie" is a French word, derived from "crepe." It refers to a restaurant or shop that specializes in making and serving crepes, thin pancakes with various fillings.
Crepe paper (noun):
Etymology: "Crepe paper" gets its name from the wrinkled or crinkled texture of the paper. It is used in various crafts and decorations due to its distinctive appearance.
These words beginning with "crep" have diverse etymological origins and meanings, but they all share a common connection to the idea of crinkling, crackling, or a specific type of fabric or texture, as reflected in their etymologies.
Here are some words that have their origins in "crepare":
Creep: While "creep" primarily means to move slowly and stealthily, its association with making a quiet, noiseless approach relates to the original meaning of "crepare."
Crisp: "Crisp" refers to something that is firm, brittle, or makes a cracking sound when bitten or broken.
Crisis: This word originally meant a turning point or decision, and the idea of making a "crack" in a situation is inherent in its meaning.
Crispation: This is a less common word, referring to the act of making or becoming crisp or wrinkling.
Crepitus: This term refers to a crackling or popping sound, often heard in the joints or when something is crushed or broken.
Excrepate: This is a rare and archaic word that means to hiss or utter a sound resembling a hiss.
Crepitate: This word means to make a crackling or rattling sound, often used in medical contexts to describe sounds heard in the chest or joints.
Crepuscular: This term refers to the twilight or the periods of dawn and dusk when light is dim, creating a sense of things being hidden or partially obscured, akin to the quiet approach suggested by "crepare."
Decrepit: This word describes something as being weakened or worn down due to old age or neglect. It implies a state of fragility and potential for cracking or breaking.
Crevice: A crevice is a narrow crack or opening, reflecting the idea of something that is split or cracked.
These words showcase the diverse ways in which the Latin root "crepare" has influenced the English language, often related to the concept of making a noise or creating a split or crack.
"Trolley", a usage I've never heard before yesterday, for a person who keeps changing their mind, has no mental tenacity and can be pulled in any direction by the latest bright idea that somebody else has put to them or that has sprung out of their own lightweight and disorganised brain.
Well, I've never heard the word "gee" before, apparently used in Ireland to refer to female genitals. I heard it in a joke about a woman in a Bray deli, who asked for ghee, leading to hilarity in the shop.
Today my husband was playing a word game on his iPad and trying to make a six-letter word with the letters available, and the game kept rejecting it.
"It IS a word!" he muttered as he typed D-E-T-E-N-T over and over.
"No, there's an extra E on the end of it," I said, pretty confident that I know how to spell "detente."
"No there's not," he said, and went to Google to type in "detent" to show me.
And that's how I learned my new word for the day: detent (a device for positioning and holding one mechanical part in relation to another). Definitely not the same thing as detente (the relaxation of strained relations or tensions), and not a word I'd heard in my 58 years on this earth, so far.
(I do know that "detente" is a French loan-word and should have an accent over the first e, but I can't remember or find how to do the accents).
Gluckschmerz was my new word this week. It was in a book I was reading. It is an antonym of schadenfreude.
Gluckschmerz is a compound of two German words: gluck, meaning luck, and schmerz, meaning pain. It represents feeling pain at the good fortune of others i.e. sadness derived from another person's happiness.
@Martin54, Koenig's or Langenscheidt's? Koenig's is a bitter pill depending on who holds the camera. Langenscheidt's we've known since we were children.
@Martin54, Koenig's or Langenscheidt's? Koenig's is a bitter pill depending on who holds the camera. Langenscheidt's we've known since we were children.
The Koenig verb. Not the German adjective, known to me since adolescence.
@Martin54, Koenig's or Langenscheidt's? Koenig's is a bitter pill depending on who holds the camera. Langenscheidt's we've known since we were children.
The Koenig verb. Not the German adjective, known to me since adolescence.
Late August 1990, newly arrived in Vienna, waiting for the streetcar. Still see the busyness -- people, traffic, apartments with lives behind the windows and curtains; two realizations:
1) I don't know a single soul here. Not one. Not even my contact.
2) All of these people around here have complete lives that do not include me.
Many repetitions since.
However, I do not have enough self to be a part of so many lives. I am grateful that billions, even 10s of people don't require my attention. I have so little of it to give. I am a part of the lives that are important to me. And I have room in my life for both perennials and annuals without being overwhelmed. The realization requires adjustment, but the reality is manageable.
Gluckschmerz was my new word this week. It was in a book I was reading. It is an antonym of schadenfreude.
Gluckschmerz is a compound of two German words: gluck, meaning luck, and schmerz, meaning pain. It represents feeling pain at the good fortune of others i.e. sadness derived from another person's happiness.
This explanation didn't feel right. And the u is missing an umlaut. (If it were standard German, it would be "Glückschmerz." ) Hints.
German has a great capacity for the bitter-sweet, and that's how I read the first part of your post -- probably the kind of happiness one feels for another that is so great it just hurts.
I couldn't find it in my dictionaries or German thesaurus. I did find this article, though, which I think is more likely true.
It reminds me of German speakers I knew who insisted that "Handy" would be perfectly clear to English speakers, because it's an English word. Well, yes, we use that word, but it never means "Cell Phone."
Thanks to @North East Quine on another thread, I have learned the word invigilate today.
That's familiar to many of us from the right hand side of the Atlantic, but less familiar is the north American usage of 'proctor' to mean the same thing (learned from my librarian wife who has been asked to invigilate exams taken at the public library).
Thanks to @North East Quine on another thread, I have learned the word invigilate today.
That's familiar to many of us from the right hand side of the Atlantic, but less familiar is the north American usage of 'proctor' to mean the same thing (learned from my librarian wife who has been asked to invigilate exams taken at the public library).
Yes, when I looked the word up, my immediate thought was, “oh, proctoring.”
Thanks to @North East Quine on another thread, I have learned the word invigilate today.
That's familiar to many of us from the right hand side of the Atlantic, but less familiar is the north American usage of 'proctor' to mean the same thing (learned from my librarian wife who has been asked to invigilate exams taken at the public library).
Before being admitted to the Bar, I was a solicitor (an office lawyer, not a court lawyer, is the best way to explain this to those in the US). Strictly, I was not admitted as a solicitor, but as an attorney, solicitor and proctor. In matters in the common law jurisdiction, I was an attorney, in equity I was a solicitor, and in probate and divorce - a proctor! These distinctions are now well and truly out-of-date., and their application when I was admitted was rare.
I'm not aware of the position in post-WW II England, but until then, an official called the King's Proctor was still appointed and carrying out duties. Those included investigation of alleged improprieties in divorce proceedings. Some may remember a woman called Wallis Simpson, who later became Duchess of Windsor. At the time her affair with the then Prince of Wales started, she was married to Ernest Simpson, and had to obtain a divorce from him. The usual investigators were engaged, and by strange chance found Simpson in an hotel room with a woman. That gave rise to suggestions of connivance (which would have voided the proceedings), and the King's Proctor investigated them. He (strangely) found no improprieties.
The description of the King's Proctor sounds as if it is from the same root as proxy, which might make sense for someone sent in to do the King's business at a distance.
Then there was an aircraft called the Percival Proctor, perhaps because it was a trainer on which student pilots were examined (while being invigilated).
Also: a Proctor is historically a UK university officer in charge of discipline, and currently (but maybe only at the University of St Andrews) a university officer in charge of education.
Apparently the word simply means someone who acts on behalf of another. Technically clergy members of the General Synod of the Church of England are Proctors in Convocation.
The word is a contraction of procurator which also gives rise to the word proxy.
Prorogation. Prorogation in the Westminster system of government is the action of proroguing, or interrupting, a parliament, or the discontinuance of meetings for a given period of time, without a dissolution of parliament.
Apparently the word simply means someone who acts on behalf of another. Technically clergy members of the General Synod of the Church of England are Proctors in Convocation.
The word is a contraction of procurator which also gives rise to the word proxy.
Also alive and well in Scotland, where we have Procurators Fiscal.
Comments
“Made or having become thick, heavy, or intense.”
The context was an article about the Tory party -
What new word did you learn today?
Not a new one to me: learned as a medical student: “ inspissated”= a collection of impacted dried out secretions such as in an imcompletely drained abscess.
Maybe just the thing to describe a gaggle of Tories but hey? what would I know as an Antipodean pox doctor?
I had to attend the fracture clinic and physio after breaking a bone in my hand. The consultant was far more interested in my bent little finger on each hand. He called it bone setters finger. The physio supplied the correct name.
Statistics vary depending on sources. It is a congenital condition, often co-existing with other conditions, frequently Downs and other syndromes.
In my case it is hereditary, but has skipped two generations. My first cousin also has the condition.
To manifest mental states in the body. I didn't know I knew the word, but it floated up when I was thinking of how to explain worrying about abdominal discomfort gave me abdominal discomfort.
"She stood watching the shadows lengthen over the lawn, as twilight slowly rattled in across the garden..."
I did forensic medicine because it was regarded as an easy option. I really wish I hadn't. Bits of that course still haunt me.
Crepuscular never means what I feel it ought to mean. I usually get a mental image of something large and horrible leaving a trail of slime across the floor as it goes. I think it's the combination of "crept" and "puscular" that suggests something quite unpleasant, muscly with pustules. Sorry.
Words beginning with "crep" and their etymology:
Crepe (noun):
Etymology: "Crepe" comes from the French word "crêpe," which is ultimately derived from the Latin "crispus," meaning "curled." Crepe is a thin, often wrinkled fabric or a type of pancake with a lacy or wrinkled texture.
Crepe (verb):
Etymology: The verb "crepe" is derived from the noun "crepe." It means to create a wrinkled or crinkled texture, often in fabric or paper, to produce a crepe-like appearance.
Crepuscular (adjective):
Etymology: "Crepuscular" comes from the Latin word "crepusculum," which means "twilight" or "dusk." It is used to describe animals or activities that are most active during the dawn or dusk hours.
Crepitus (noun):
Etymology: "Crepitus" comes from the Latin word "crepitus," which means "a cracking or creaking sound." It is often used in the medical context to refer to abnormal sounds, such as crackling in the joints or tissues.
Crepey (adjective):
Etymology: "Crepey" is an informal term derived from "crepe." It is used to describe skin that has a wrinkled or crinkled appearance, similar to crepe fabric.
Crepitate (verb):
Etymology: "Crepitate" is derived from the Latin word "crepitatus," which means "to crackle" or "make a crackling sound." It is used to describe the act of producing crackling or popping noises.
Creperie (noun):
Etymology: "Creperie" is a French word, derived from "crepe." It refers to a restaurant or shop that specializes in making and serving crepes, thin pancakes with various fillings.
Crepe paper (noun):
Etymology: "Crepe paper" gets its name from the wrinkled or crinkled texture of the paper. It is used in various crafts and decorations due to its distinctive appearance.
These words beginning with "crep" have diverse etymological origins and meanings, but they all share a common connection to the idea of crinkling, crackling, or a specific type of fabric or texture, as reflected in their etymologies.
Here are some words that have their origins in "crepare":
Creep: While "creep" primarily means to move slowly and stealthily, its association with making a quiet, noiseless approach relates to the original meaning of "crepare."
Crisp: "Crisp" refers to something that is firm, brittle, or makes a cracking sound when bitten or broken.
Crisis: This word originally meant a turning point or decision, and the idea of making a "crack" in a situation is inherent in its meaning.
Crispation: This is a less common word, referring to the act of making or becoming crisp or wrinkling.
Crepitus: This term refers to a crackling or popping sound, often heard in the joints or when something is crushed or broken.
Excrepate: This is a rare and archaic word that means to hiss or utter a sound resembling a hiss.
Crepitate: This word means to make a crackling or rattling sound, often used in medical contexts to describe sounds heard in the chest or joints.
Crepuscular: This term refers to the twilight or the periods of dawn and dusk when light is dim, creating a sense of things being hidden or partially obscured, akin to the quiet approach suggested by "crepare."
Decrepit: This word describes something as being weakened or worn down due to old age or neglect. It implies a state of fragility and potential for cracking or breaking.
Crevice: A crevice is a narrow crack or opening, reflecting the idea of something that is split or cracked.
These words showcase the diverse ways in which the Latin root "crepare" has influenced the English language, often related to the concept of making a noise or creating a split or crack.
'What is the difference between [insultee] and a supermarket trolley?
A supermarket trolley has a mind of its own'.
Not sure how useful this is going to be but there it is.
"It IS a word!" he muttered as he typed D-E-T-E-N-T over and over.
"No, there's an extra E on the end of it," I said, pretty confident that I know how to spell "detente."
"No there's not," he said, and went to Google to type in "detent" to show me.
And that's how I learned my new word for the day: detent (a device for positioning and holding one mechanical part in relation to another). Definitely not the same thing as detente (the relaxation of strained relations or tensions), and not a word I'd heard in my 58 years on this earth, so far.
(I do know that "detente" is a French loan-word and should have an accent over the first e, but I can't remember or find how to do the accents).
Gluckschmerz is a compound of two German words: gluck, meaning luck, and schmerz, meaning pain. It represents feeling pain at the good fortune of others i.e. sadness derived from another person's happiness.
The Koenig verb. Not the German adjective, known to me since adolescence.
Late August 1990, newly arrived in Vienna, waiting for the streetcar. Still see the busyness -- people, traffic, apartments with lives behind the windows and curtains; two realizations:
1) I don't know a single soul here. Not one. Not even my contact.
2) All of these people around here have complete lives that do not include me.
Many repetitions since.
However, I do not have enough self to be a part of so many lives. I am grateful that billions, even 10s of people don't require my attention. I have so little of it to give. I am a part of the lives that are important to me. And I have room in my life for both perennials and annuals without being overwhelmed. The realization requires adjustment, but the reality is manageable.
This explanation didn't feel right. And the u is missing an umlaut. (If it were standard German, it would be "Glückschmerz." ) Hints.
German has a great capacity for the bitter-sweet, and that's how I read the first part of your post -- probably the kind of happiness one feels for another that is so great it just hurts.
I couldn't find it in my dictionaries or German thesaurus. I did find this article, though, which I think is more likely true.
It reminds me of German speakers I knew who insisted that "Handy" would be perfectly clear to English speakers, because it's an English word. Well, yes, we use that word, but it never means "Cell Phone."
So tricky.
That's familiar to many of us from the right hand side of the Atlantic, but less familiar is the north American usage of 'proctor' to mean the same thing (learned from my librarian wife who has been asked to invigilate exams taken at the public library).
(I’ll get me coat.)
Before being admitted to the Bar, I was a solicitor (an office lawyer, not a court lawyer, is the best way to explain this to those in the US). Strictly, I was not admitted as a solicitor, but as an attorney, solicitor and proctor. In matters in the common law jurisdiction, I was an attorney, in equity I was a solicitor, and in probate and divorce - a proctor! These distinctions are now well and truly out-of-date., and their application when I was admitted was rare.
I'm not aware of the position in post-WW II England, but until then, an official called the King's Proctor was still appointed and carrying out duties. Those included investigation of alleged improprieties in divorce proceedings. Some may remember a woman called Wallis Simpson, who later became Duchess of Windsor. At the time her affair with the then Prince of Wales started, she was married to Ernest Simpson, and had to obtain a divorce from him. The usual investigators were engaged, and by strange chance found Simpson in an hotel room with a woman. That gave rise to suggestions of connivance (which would have voided the proceedings), and the King's Proctor investigated them. He (strangely) found no improprieties.
I never baby-sat a dragon......
Then there was an aircraft called the Percival Proctor, perhaps because it was a trainer on which student pilots were examined (while being invigilated).
The word is a contraction of procurator which also gives rise to the word proxy.
Also alive and well in Scotland, where we have Procurators Fiscal.