Today is St David's Day, look you, she writes, which is why I am wearing a leek. The origin of this custom is not hard to explain, once you realise that the Welsh have been trying to repel the English for the last eight hundred years, well, since Edward the First's time anyway. We didn't have any weapons, see, look you, so we drove them back with the smell of leeks, the way the French reinforced the Maginot Line by smearing it with garlic.
It didn't work, though, the English, being permanently bunged up with nasal catarrh from the smog, can't smell a thing, so they colonised us and burned down our castles anyway.
But, I shouldn't go on about Loegri and its perfidient albinos. Forgive and forget, I say. Live and let live, I say.
Mind you, if any more of them buy up cottages in my village, I might araldite their front door locks with leeks-au-gratin. Look you.
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, mostly peacable.