You would think that writing regularly I might used to the surprising things that words do. But every now and then they creep up and do something cool. I guess that is what makes great writers: the gift of being able to make words dance for you rather than, like me, being surprised when you come across a side show of performing syllables.
Take, for example, the other day. In the foyer of our glorious headquarters there is, in a glass topped wooden case, a book of remembrance. It is a beautifully calligraphed volume containing one page for each of the unfortunate colleagues who have died doing their job. The book is such that new leaves of parchment can be added as the time arises. It was recently missing for the addition of a new leaf and its return was commented on by my esteemed colleague as we strolled towards the escape door at the end of the day.
"Look, the Ring Binder of Remembrance is back" she said.
And word conjuring occurred.
"You can't call it that" I said,
"Why not? That's what it is."
And it is: a ring binder in a glass case. But it is so much more; it represents so much more and seems to deserve more than to be such a work-a-day thing as a ring binder. It deserves to be a book, a serious weighty tome of permanence.
How much more substantial does it sound as a book of remembrance?
