What is the difference between butterfly and spud? 

The difference between butterfly and spud is that butterfly is to cut almost entirely in half and spread the halves apart, in a shape suggesting the wings of a butterfly while spud is (drilling) to begin to drill an oil well; to drill by moving the drill bit and shaft up and down, or by raising and dropping a bit. 

A Supplement to the Two Volumes of the Second Edition of The Essay on the Archaeology of our Popular Phrases, Terms and Nursery Rhymes
"The hard working one is the provision store, the Holy One the gentle [maggot, the torpid eater of it]; the consequence is a continual struggle between the two; the Holy One (Priest) insures contention with the homestead by his vexations exactions; the hard-working one perseveres in his habitual course; the Holy Wafer Man (Friar) bellows, teazes, pinches (straightens for provision). You of the industrious class have but to will it and there's an end to the whole Friarly Gang (the intruded Friarhood). Show the Holy One that you are up to the mark (behave like one who knows what he is about)! Roar out the grievance (the nuisance) his being here is to you all (din in his ears the outcry of the plague he is to you)! All at once this one's jaw comes to a stand-still (all of a sudden this kind of defiance ceases); the rabble has no courage (there is no relying upon the cry of a mob). The whole village (place in point) falls into accord with this vapouring fellow; the Cloddy (fool, idiot) submits (behaves himself as usual); the Cowl (Friar) succeeds (has his way), in a little time we (all of us) and all our property will become the booty of heresy (false doctrine, superstition); so let us see they are out of sight at once [let us get rid of them]!"

it had been a long time since I had read any books, so I couldn't remember what it is that populates life. driving past the school the day after its spring carnival, for example, I saw tweens in the playground shadows, discussing whatever it was that had happened. but what would that have been? a garment? a word? they were even now making sense of each other's faces, crawling across the pyramid with a stone in each hand. 

there's a stillness in the corner of the frame. in the pond. in the screen. I go there. double stillness in double stillness. my face, my face. I recite my lines. nothing is disturbed. the camera sits against the windscreen. the water is the sky. scope. which eye do you focus. which of my pupils is fixed. 

baby's hot red cheeks - sun or teething or just heat? we're breastfeeding in the bath - as soon as he latches on his eyes drift out of focus, the lids want to close. something in the water looks dirty, swirling, bodily, from the baby or? but he's not weed or pooed, not the right place, and there it is again, swirling, cloudy, I follow to my nipple and I don't recognise what is happening - it's just the milk letting down while he feeds on the other side, but I've never seen that, all the years of having breasts, never seen a tiny jet of milk spinning out into the water. and I'm thinking about following thoughts, the looping round and round, how I've never even tried to write that or really hear it, and thinking - surely it can't all be unpleasant, dull, self-centred, mawkish? surely not all of it?