Skip to main content

Of beds, chromosomes and naughty boys

Boys! Aaargh!

Why is the 'Y' chromosome so called? Pause to consider this for a moment before I get onto the subject of beds.

The X chromosome - the one, that when expressed as XX,  confers the female genotype - is aptly named. Xs are symmetrical (pointy, but in a rounded sort of way) and elsewhere, they are used to represent kisses. Female relatives - mums, daughters, grannies, aunts - tend to be the great kissers in our lives, so the X chromosome is aptly named. (And yes, I do actually realise that the X in the X chromosome and the X  representing kisses have nothing to do with each other! But as coincidences go, it's a pretty happy one).

Anyway, why might Y be the name given to the rather stumpy-looking male chromosome? Does it look like a little man with both fists in the air, ready to pummel another little man? Is he perhaps holding his hands up in surrender to the more elegant female chromosome? Or waving in desperation as he drowns in the sea of 45 other chromosomes, all of which are taller than him? Or does the Y look a bit like a weapon: grab it by the vertical leg and use it to bludgeon any other Ys that get too close?

Given that they were probably named by a committee of male scientists, it's funny that, when comparing the letter Y with the letter X, they chose to give the one with a bit missing to the man. What were they trying to say - that a man can do everything standing on one leg, but that a woman needs two feet firmly on the ground? If this last thought even crossed their minds (which, of course, it probably didn't) then I think they kinda shot themselves in the foot, don't you? Men don't multitask: stand a man on one leg and he'll be incapable of doing anything else. Apart from telling all the XXs around him how terribly busy he is, and how he couldn't possibly put the kettle on, empty the bin, or do any washing up.

I digress - back to beds. And boys (those members of our family with the Y chromosome). They get nice soft beds; soft covers; a warm room to sleep in. And what do they do?

They break the bed; rip its cover; scatter its stuffing all over the floor; and poo on it! Yes! I am talking about the dogs. Not the son! ... mostly, not the son - the bed breaking bit might be his; but more due to faulty construction than the Y chromosome. At least, that's his story ...

The dogs - Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins - were treated to "almost indestructible" dog beds (big cushions with tough canvas covers) for their crates, at about the time that Bertie Baggins joined the family (precisely six and a half months ago).

And it has taken six and a half months for them to demonstrate what "almost" means.


But even when it is ripped at every corner and spewing its foam-filling all over the floor, they can still share the one that has "almost" survived.

The other bed failed the "almost" bit completely, wasn't indestructible and has gone to dog-bed-heaven, otherwise known as the local recycling centre. Bertie Baggins would like to have some dirty washing in his crate.


Afraid though, that the washing had to be washed and he'll have to make do with a few sheets of Sunday Times instead.


The beds of XX family members? All intact when last checked - protected by a legion of soft toys; adorned with dream catchers and fairy lights; and adrift on a calm sea of soft music to aid sleep. Not a sheet of newspaper in sight!






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Tut, Tut, soggy feet again

"Tut, Tut, looks like rain." Tut, Tut probably isn't the first thing that springs to mind when viewing this picture. And faced with bleak weather and a sad-looking symbol of national pride it is unlikely that many would consider a small bear  a personage of sufficient gravitas to quote. However, Walking the Dog was in Scotland ( was rather than is, because was there last week without internet). And Walking the Dog likes Pooh. That sort of Pooh - the sort with an 'h' at the end. A. A. Milne had a lot to say about the weather. He gave Eeyore my favourite weather-related observation , "The nicest thing about the rain is that it always stops. Eventually." And last Thursday, it did stop. Long enough for Littlest and I to walk to our pooh-sticks bridge. Long enough for us to get half way there, along the grassy path. Long enough for us to chat to the cows (we had to shout as they stubbornly stayed at the distant end of the fie