Sunday, 27 July 2014

Sunday 2.


Ronneby Church, a lovely, early Church with quite superb wall paintings inside.

Our two Swedish granddaughters in a doorway of the above Church, making a fairly creditable stab at being resident gargoyles. Not entirely convincing, perhaps; but a good sporting effort nonetheless.

P.s. I mean; would any sensible man who valued a quiet life, describe any of his female relations as 'looking exactly like gargoyles' ?  Quod erat demonstrandum, as we used to write at the end of theorums in maths (and yes Crowbard/Rog, I know that last word should probably be theora)

Pedants !!!!!

10 comments:

Crowbard said...

To be perhaps a tiny bit more pedantic 'quod erat demonstrandum' is a translation from the Greek ὅπερ ἔδει δεῖξαι (hoper edei deixai; abbreviated as ΟΕΔ). Translating from the Latin into English yields, "What was to be demonstrated". Translating the Greek phrase ὅπερ ἔδει δεῖξαι directly into English produces the slightly different meaning of "The precise task to be elucidated." The phrase was used by many early Greek mathematicians, including Euclid and Archimedes.

Mike and Ann said...

I always understood it to mean :- 'Which was to have been proved'.

Crowbard said...

You are quite correct Mike. Demonstrated, shown or proved equally fit the translation from the latin 'demonstrandum' think about the ecclesiastical term 'monstrance'.
And 'quod' is used to say either 'what' or 'which', the Romans not having such a variegated vocabulary as English.
Erat is not so eratic and is always translated as 'was'. So much depends upon the preferences of your maths or classics teachers and how we innocent students held their every utterance to be incontestable.
I suspect you were taught by Alf Pittham, although I've heard other of our teachers give the same meaning verbatim.
Slob-gob Owen always made me use 'illustratio' for picture, told me it was lazy to say 'pictura'; one was not allowed to ask why in those days.

Mike and Ann said...

I don't think Alf Pittham taught anyone anything much, except how to get away with Sir stirring. I had Josh Lever (who was said to have had a chunk of metal lodged in his skull from the First World War), and Taffy Roberts, who was one of the few masters who showed much evidence of being vaguely human (occasionally).

Rog said...

Sorry I'm late. The dog ate my homework.
Please don't tell Slob-gob Owen.

Crowbard said...

Sorry Rog, He never needed to be told... He just KNEW!!!!

Crowbard said...

Talking of stirring teachers Mike, did your class ever sing that slightly emphasised 's' that sounded like a whip-lash to wind up Jimmy Fletcher? He'd come storming out from behind the piano shouting 'Who did that?' when any fool could hear everybody had to do it to get the full effect. 'Sorry Sir, did what Sir?' was the usual concerted response.

Mike and Ann said...

Hello Crowbard. You were playing with fire. Jimmy Fletcher may have been old when we knew him (he did, in fact, teach my late mother-in-law to play the piano, at the time of the first World War; but it was chancy work messing with the venerable James, at any time. I once saw him knock a chap called Orbine backwards over the bench on which he sat, for the venial offence of playing the paper and comb behind his sheet music(and worse in Sir's eyes - playing it OUT OF TUNE). He then glared round until his eyes alighted on me (horrors).
"Horner" he bellowed "I believe you're Form Captain of this rabble?"
"Sir" I replied, truthfully.
"How many debits does it take in these regenerate times to ensure that the Head delivers a sound thrashing?"
"Somewhere between three and five is usually reckoned about right, Sir", (slightly less truthfully, but trying to let Orbine down lightly). Sir saw through my benevolent plan (oil on troubled waters, what? Best thing, I thought).
He turned back to his erstwhile tormentor.
"Orbine, take fifteen debits, my compliments to the Head, and I would take it as a favour if he'd lay on mercilessly." This last bit was pure swank for we never knew the O.M. to let the quality of mercy become a bit strained.

After which none of us EVER tried to pull that particular Sir's nether limb (either of them-nether limbs that is). This may sound a bit Dickensian for school life in the nineteen fifties - it is fact.

Margaret Brocklehurst said...

Our headMaster Mr Allen used to walk around with his cane up his jacket sleeve and finding anyone slightly out of line (and I mean slightly), would mean the cane sliding out into his hand in seconds and the cane would come down harshly upon the nearest part of the child's body within reach. If you ducked, you would get double treatment! This was late fifties, early sixties.
Hard blackboard erasers would be thrown by any of the teachers usually aimed at the head!

Mike and Ann said...

P.p.s Last comment bar one :- should have been degenerate times, not regenerate.