The Power of the Press

Against all my warnings, they've all got really bad colds this morning.

I said - the so-called "drought" was just a media invention. The Marketing departments in Water companies have to invent them occasionally, or we forget they exist and just moan that the price of water is so high. And it's been about 6 weeks with reduced rainfall. The desertification of Mid Beds isn't going to happen just yet. And they pointed out the sand on the ground and said "Look! Desert!" And I said "Yes - in the Jurassic. Now get a grip."

And so when it started raining, the rain dances started. They said, "Can't take a chance. Want to encourage it." And I said, "That's Sympathetic Magic. Which is An Offence Unto the Lord." So they called it "Thanksgiving". Which made it officially All Right.

And last night it poured and poured. And they insisted they were Thanksgiving. I called it madness. But they danced out there anyway.

And so this morning they've all got even worse colds. They wouldn't listen. And now they just want to know why I've no sympathy. You can't win.

So if you'll excuse me, I've forty cups of Lemsip to make. But don't think I feel sorry for them.

Sympathetic Magic

The use of Sympathetic Magic in old religions is of course well-documented.  It is believed* that one of the reasons that bonfires were lit at Samhain, Yule, Beltane, etc was to prompt the sun into offering of its own rays - that the sun god, seeing our puny fires down on earth, would be encouraged to pour out the blessings of his warmth.  At Beltane the hope was that the sun would continue to strengthen.  At Samhain, that he wouldn't dwindle away.  And at Yule, that he wouldn't disappear completely.
We retain the tradition of lighting bonfires and/or wicker people (we accept male and female wicker people of all genders and several) at various key times of the year.  Unlike our forebears, with generations of scientific training and post-modern cynicism behind us we just like lighting bonfires.

All of which may give some background to this morning's rather odd events. Encouraged by my downgrading of the snow alert, Burghley and Edith Weston, rather than hiding out from the cold, went to the opposite extreme.
Running around the courtyard dressed in bermuda shorts, flower-print tops and sunglasses could be classed as tasteless at most seasons of the year.  But in the current climate I think that "suicidally dim" might be a better classification.
Needless to say, after half an hour of chanting, laying down on the snow as if sunbathing and shouting "ooh isn't it warm", they were both struck down with hypothermia.  It would appear that the sun has resolutely refused to come out in sympathy, and our real concern is that the spirits of the snow may have regarded it as some kind of botched sacrifice to them, in which case we're all in real trouble.
All in all, the worst bit of sympathetic magic since the Prophets of Baal nicked themselves shaving.  Enjoy the link, to a "children's" page which manages to treat the mass-execution of a group of (no doubt sincere, well-meaning) people in quite a light-hearted way, I think.

* Or at least, lots of books say.  None of the old people left any writings.