Ah! The delights of our native language(s).

The lackwits who don't realise that the plural of 'stadium' is 'stadia'.

That merry, chuckling flow of pellucid water that flows down the valley and through the woods, its' crystal depths alive with sticklebacks, tadpoles and suicidal Sainsburys' trolleys! Is it a beck, a brook or a stream?

The joys of an address that includes Chipping Sodbury, Heckmondwike or Wetwang!

It's your lunch, It has ham, cheese and Branston pickle inside it. But outside? Roll, batch, bap, breadcake, cob or stottie?

What other tongue gives us a murder of crows, a clowder of cats or a superfluity of nuns?

You'd have to be as dim as a Toc-H lamp, mad as a coot or daft as a brush not to love it!

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