Henry and Bronwyn come back from a meeting with The Umpty Antiquarian Society where they've been trying to make arrangements for this December's celebration of the bicentenary of the Great Local Literary Character Ederic Ploog.
Every library authority has its own Great Local Literary Character, nearly none of whom are known beyond the district boundary, and Ederic Ploog is ours. His stuff's written in broad Lankyshire full of jugginses, taytahs and Mary Ellens all muck and nettles about a thrutchin' in the ale yard. There are a couple of Victorian local lads I really enjoy but I find old Ploog a bit too overly-mannered, pretty much what I'd write myself if I were pretending to be a Lancashire Dialect Writer. Needless to say, he's lionised hereabouts.
Henry is bemused. He, like me, isn't a local and so is astonished to find that the Antiquarian Society insists that his name is pronounced "Pleuff." He is now insisting we all call him "Plug."
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