Circus, Leeches, and the Legal Fiction of the 2nd Baron Stamp

Hello again! As my recovery progresses, I am dipping a toe back into the waters of blogging. Or perhaps that should be dipping seven tiny toes, as I present you with a bit of this and a bit of that, culled from what I have been reading and doing of late.

A decorative mosaic cross hangs on a textured off-white wall above a white mantleshelf over terracotta tiling. On the shelf is a large brown glass jar with a flower arrangement. Long branchy arms swoop out to left and right, with spires of lavender and rosemary rising in the centre.

Speaking of culling, here’s something you can do with your prunings (beside compost them, chip them into mulch, or pile them up for critter habitat). The bulk of the above arrangement is from a branch of maukoro I recently had to remove. Its Latin name is Carmichaelia odorata – though I haven’t noticed any odours yet – and its English name is New Zealand broom, though it’s no relation to the European broom. Rosemary and lavender prunings add a bit of colour, foliage variety, and vertical interest.

Interesting Times

When one hears of legal fiction, one tends to think of John Grisham – but it turns out that the legal system is also capable of producing fictions, albeit not quite so gripping and bestsellery. For example, in English law, if two people in a family die and you can’t tell who died first, the legal fiction holds that the older died first, thus clarifying lines of inheritance.

This legal fiction is the cause of the record for shortest peerage: Wilfred Stamp, the 2nd Baron Stamp, died in the Blitz alongside his father, the 1st Baron Stamp. Since his father was, obviously, the elder, he was deemed to have died before Wilfred, and thus Wilfred technically became the 2nd Baron Stamp. However, as Wilfred had three daughters but no sons, the barony passed to his younger brother Trevor, who would have inherited it even if Wilfred had died first. The only differences were that Trevor became the 3rd Baron Stamp, not the 2nd, and had to pay two lots of death duties.

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Name the Mystery Beastie!

Behold, the Mystery Beastie!

A strange looking animal with its mouth open toward the viewer. Above its mouth is a short trunk ending in a piglike nose. One raggedy ear is visible on its black somewhat horselike head. The front half of the animal seems black and its back half white.

This particular species of Mystery Beastie already has at least nine names (seven English, two Latin, not counting subspecies names, or its many names in other languages), but frankly, none of them do the poor endangered freaky creature justice, in my opinion.

In order to give you a good all-round view of the subject to guide your naming efforts, I have gathered an assortment of images of the Mystery Beastie. (Note: clicking on an image will take you to the Wikimedia Commons page for that image, which may bestow upon you spoilers as to one or more existing names for the Mystery Beastie.)

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Who Made This?

The nature of creativity has been given a bit of extra scrutiny lately, with the rise of AI art. Which (you may be relieved to hear) I do not propose to discuss. But the question of who is the creator of a work – or what involvement counts as creation – is one that isn’t limited to interactions with bots, algorithms, or any of that other techy stuff.

I read a book recently, about a garden called Federal Twist. James Golden, the man who wrote the book, lives in the house in the garden (at least part-time; I wasn’t sure if it’s just a weekend place or what), and designed the garden. And he identifies very closely with the garden. So much so that he says, “I am Federal Twist.” Well, he wouldn’t be the first human to identify with place, and he’ll be far from the last.

But.

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