Eloquence (And Part One of Where the Coffee...)

There are so many beautiful, delightful, and amusing words in the English language, it’s hard for me to choose just one.

If pressured, however, I guess I’d pick the word ‘Eloquence’ which means the ability to use language and express your opinions well.

Not only do I love the sound of the word but I strive to obtain its definition.

Still, it didn’t feel right choosing only one, and so below is an excerpt from a longer piece. I tried to use as many of my favourite words as I could and also hope there are at least a few sentences that could be examples of eloquence.

(The piece was a bit long, so I split it up and I’m uploading part two separately. I’d love it if you checked it out. Any feedback is always welcome and valued)

Where the Coffee makes Itself

- Chapter One -

- Part One -

Georgie Gnu was tired.

In fact, he struggled to remember a time he had been more tired than he was at that particular moment. Not only had he not eaten for forty-eight hours, and not only had the previous night’s sleep been rudely cut short by a five-a.m. downpour, but, the ramshackle gadabout, with his life on his back, had walked for nearly three hundred miles that past week! Over dales and moors, crags and creeks, pikes and tarns; and all this in winkle-pickers, mind you! The blisters were agony. His knees, aquiver. The fatigue and hunger - dizzying.

But what choice did he have? A man needed to work in this world, did he not?

The irony was that whilst this wretched existence demanded he earn his living, it seemed very reluctant to allow him such a privilege.

Every town he’d passed through, from Wakefield to Woburn, had told him with a shake of their head that, No, sorry, there was no work there.

Perhaps this really is the end for us drivers, Georgie thought gloomily as he coddiwompled out of yet another town. He’d met the same disheartening answers there and a weariness had begun to tug on the spirits of the young wayfarer.

If I can just make it to London, he thought, then I’ll be right. There’s bound to be work in London!

Having just left Toddington, young Mr Gnu was less than a day’s walk from the capital, a reflection that gave him new strength. And so, with a refreshed spring in his step, the vagabond strode down the trail to continue his hunt.

On the edge of town, half-way to Wingfield, Georgie came across a peculiar looking building. A tiny old cottage with a thatched roof and wooden shutters over the windows stood wind beaten on the crest of Dunstable Hill.

As he neared the cottage, he saw a sign above the doorway that read ‘Ye Old Bookshop’. These days, one was lucky to find a book, let alone a bookshop, and so led by curiosity and bewilderment, Georgie entered the little store.