Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Man In The Moon”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3

The Man in the Moon came tumbling down,

And enquired the way to Norwich;

He went by the south and burned his mouth

With eating cold pease porridge!

What! Have you ever heard the story of the Man in the Moon? Then I must surely tell it, for it is very amusing, and there is not a word of truth in it.

The Man in the Moon was rather lonesome, and often he peeked over the edge of the moon and looked down upon the earth and envied all the people who lived together, for he thought it must be vastly more pleasant to have companions to talk to than to be shut up in a big planet all by himself, where he had to whistle to keep himself company.

One day he looked down and saw an alderman sailing up through the air towards him. This alderman was being translated (instead of being transported, owing to a misprint in the law) and as he came near the Man in the Moon called to him and said,

“How is everything down on the earth?”

“Everything is lovely,” replied the alderman, “and I would n’t leave it if I was not obliged to.”

“What ‘s a good place to visit down there?” enquired the Man in the Moon.

“Oh, Norwich is a mighty fine place,” returned the alderman, “and it ‘s famous for its pease porridge;” and then he sailed out of sight and left the Man in the Moon to reflect upon what he had said.

The words of the alderman made him more anxious than ever to visit the earth, and so he walked thoughtfully home, and put a few lumps of ice in the stove to keep him warm, and sat down to think how he should manage the trip.

You see, everything went by contraries in the Moon, and when the Man wished to keep warm he knocked off a few chunks of ice and put them in his stove; and he cooled his drinking water by throwing red-hot coals of fire into the pitcher. Likewise, when he became chilly he took off his hat and coat, and even his shoes, and so became warm; and in the hot days of summer he put on his overcoat to cool off.

All of which seems very queer to you, no doubt; but it was n’t at all queer to the Man in the Moon, for he was accustomed to it.

Well, he sat by his ice-cool fire and thought about his journey to the earth, and finally he decided the only way he could get there was to slide down a moonbeam.

So he left the house and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, for he was uncertain how long he should be gone; and then he went to the edge of the moon and began to search for a good strong moonbeam.

At last he found one that seemed rather substantial and reached right down to a pleasant-looking spot on the earth; and so he swung himself over the edge of the moon, and put both arms tight around the moonbeam and started to slide down. But he found it rather slippery, and in spite of all his efforts to hold on he found himself going faster and faster, so that just before he reached the earth he lost his hold and came tumbling down head over heels and fell plump into a river.

The cool water nearly scalded him before he could swim out, but fortunately he was near the bank and he quickly scrambled upon the land and sat down to catch his breath.

By that time it was morning, and as the sun rose its hot rays cooled him off somewhat, so that he began looking curiously at all the strange sights and wondering where on earth he was.

By and by a farmer came along the road by the river with a team of horses drawing a load of hay, and the horses looked so odd to the Man in the Moon that at first he was greatly frightened, never before having seen horses except from his home in the moon, from whence they looked a good deal smaller. But he plucked up courage and said to the farmer,

“Can you tell me the way to Norwich, sir?”

“Norwich?” repeated the farmer musingly; “I do n’t know exactly where it is, sir, but it ‘s somewhere away to the south.”

“Thank you,” said the Man in the Moon.–But stop! I must not call him the Man in the Moon any longer, for of course he was now out of the moon; so I ‘ll simply call him the Man, and you ‘ll know by which man I mean.

Well, the Man in the–I mean the Man (but I nearly forgot what I have just said)–the Man turned to the south and began walking briskly along the road, for he had made up his mind to do as the alderman had advised and travel to Norwich, that he might eat some of the famous pease porridge that was made there. And finally, after a long and tiresome journey, he reached the town and stopped at one of the first houses he came to, for by this time he was very hungry indeed.

A good-looking woman answered his knock at the door, and he asked politely,

“Is this the town of Norwich, madam?”

“Surely this is the town of Norwich,” returned the woman.

“I came here to see if I could get some pease porridge,” continued the Man, “for I hear you make I the nicest porridge in the world in this town.”

“That we do, sir,” answered the woman, “and if you ‘ll step inside I ‘ll give you a bowl, for I have plenty in the house that is newly made.”

So he thanked her and entered the house, and she asked,

“Will you have it hot or cold, sir?”

“Oh, cold, by all means,” replied the Man, “for I detest anything hot to eat.”

She soon brought him a bowl of cold pease porridge, and the Man was so hungry that he took a big spoonful at once.

But no sooner had he put it into his mouth than he uttered a great yell, and began dancing frantically about the room, for of course the porridge that was cold to earth folk was hot to him, and the big spoonful of cold pease porridge had burned his mouth to a blister!

“What ‘s the matter?” asked the woman.

“Matter!” screamed the Man; “why, your porridge is so hot it has burned me.”

“Fiddlesticks!” She replied, “the porridge is quite cold.”

“Try it yourself!” he cried. So she tried it and found it very cold and pleasant. But the Man was so astonished to see her eat the porridge that had blistered his own mouth that he became frightened and ran out of the house and down the street as fast as he could go.

The policeman on the first corner saw him running, and promptly arrested him, and he was marched off to the magistrate for trial.

“What is your name?” asked the magistrate.

“I have n’t any,” replied the Man; for of course as he was the only Man on the Moon it was n’t necessary he should have a name.

“Come, come, no nonsense!” said the magistrate, “you must have some name. Who are you?”

“Why, I ‘m the Man in the Moon.”

“That ‘s rubbish!” said the magistrate, eyeing the prisoner severely, “you may be a man, but you ‘re not in the moon-you ‘re in Norwich.”

“That is true,” answered the Man, who was quite bewildered by this idea.

“And of course you must be called something,” continued the magistrate.

“Well, then,” said the prisoner, “if I ‘m not the Man in the Moon I must be the Man out of the Moon; so call me that.”

“Very good,” replied the judge; “now, then, where did you come from?”

“The moon.”

“Oh, you did, eh? How did you get here?”

“I slid down a moonbeam.”

“Indeed! Well, what were you running for?”

“A woman gave me some cold pease porridge, and it burned my mouth.”

The magistrate looked at him a moment in surprise, and then he said,

“This person is evidently crazy; so take him to the lunatic asylum and keep him there.”

This would surely have been the fate of the Man had there not been present an old astronomer who had often looked at the moon through his telescope, and so had discovered that what was hot on earth was cold in the moon, and what was cold here was hot there; so he began to think the Man had told the truth. Therefore he begged the magistrate to wait a few minutes while he looked through his telescope to see if the Man in the Moon was there. So, as it was now night, he fetched his telescope and looked at the Moon,–and found there was no man in it at all!

“It seems to be true,” said the astronomer, “that the Man has got out of the Moon somehow or other. Let me look at your mouth, sir, and see if it is really burned.”

Then the Man opened his mouth, and everyone saw plainly it was burned to a blister! Thereupon the magistrate begged his pardon for doubting his word, and asked him what he would like to do next.

“I ‘d like to get back to the Moon,” said the Man, “for I do n’t like this earth of yours at all. The nights are too hot.”

“Why, it ‘s quite cool this evening!” said the magistrate.

“I ‘ll tell you what we can do,” remarked the astronomer; “there’s a big balloon in town which belongs to the circus that came here last summer, and was pawned for a board bill. We can inflate this balloon and send the Man out of the Moon home in it.”

“That’s a good idea,” replied the judge. So the balloon was brought and inflated, and the Man got into the basket and gave the word to let go, and then the balloon mounted up into the sky in the direction of the moon.

The good people of Norwich stood on the earth and tipped back their heads, and watched the balloon go higher and higher, until finally the Man reached out and caught hold of the edge of the moon, and behold! the next minute he was the Man in the Moon again!

After this adventure he was well content to stay at home; and I ‘ve no doubt if you look through a telescope you will see him there to this day.

Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Doll’s House”. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3

WHEN dear old Mrs. Hay went back to town after staying with the Burnells she sent the children a doll’s house. It was so big that the carter and Pat carried it into the courtyard, and there it stayed, propped up on two wooden boxes beside the feed-room door. No harm could come to it; it was summer. And perhaps the smell of paint would have gone off by the time it had to be taken in. For, really, the smell of paint coming from that doll’s house (‘ Sweet of old Mrs. Hay, of course ; most sweet and generous ! ‘)—but the smell of paint was quite enough to make anyone seriously ill, in Aunt Beryl’s opinion. Even before the sacking was taken off. And when it was…

There stood the Doll’s house, a dark, oily, spinach green, picked out with bright yellow. Its two solid little chimneys, glued on to the roof, were painted red and white, and the door, gleaming with yellow varnish, was like a little slab of toffee. Four windows, real windows, were divided into panes by a broad streak of green. There was actually a tiny porch, too, painted yellow, with big lumps of congealed paint hanging along the edge.

But a perfect, perfect little house! Who could possibly mind the smell. It was part of the joy, part of the newness.

” Open it quickly, someone ! “

The hook at the side was stuck fast. Pat prized it open with his penknife, and the whole house front swung back, and—there you were, gazing at one and the same moment into the drawing-room and dining-room, the kitchen and two bedrooms. That is the way for a house to open ! Why don’t all houses open like that ? How much more exciting than peering through the slit of a door into a mean little hall with a hatstand and two umbrellas! That is—isn’t it ?—what you long to know about a house when you put your hand on the knocker. Perhaps it is the way God opens houses at the dead of night when He is taking a quiet turn with an angel…

” O-oh! ” The Burnell children sounded as though they were in despair. It was too marvellous ; it was too much for them. They had never seen anything like it in their lives. All the rooms were papered. There were pictures on the walls, painted on the paper, with gold frames complete. Red carpet covered all the floors except the kitchen ; red plush chairs in the drawing-room, green in the dining-room; tables, beds with real bedclothes, a cradle, a stove, a dresser with tiny plates and one big jug. But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully”, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was even filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn’t light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil and moved when you shook it.

The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll’s house. They didn’t look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia, to say, ” I live here.” The lamp was real.

The Burnell children could hardly walk to school fast enough the next morning. They burned to tell everybody, to describe, to—well —to boast about their doll’s house before the school-bell rang.

” I’m to tell,” said Isabel, ” because I’m the eldest. And you two can join in after. But I’m to tell you first.”

There was nothing to answer. Isabel was bossy, but she was always right, and Lottie and Kezia knew too well the powers that went with being eldest. They brushed through the thick buttercups at the road edge and said nothing.

” And I’m to choose who’s to come and see it first. Mother said I might.”

For it had been arranged that while the doll’s house stood in the courtyard they might ask the girls at school, two at a time, to come and look. Not to stay for tea, of course, or to come traipsing through the house. But just to stand quietly in the courtyard while Isabel pointed out the beauties, and Lottie and Kezia looked pleased…

But hurry as they might, by the time they had reached the tarred palings of the boys’ playground the bell had begun to jangle. They only just had time to whip off their hats and fall into line before the roll was called. Never mind. Isabel tried to make up for it by looking very important and mysterious and by whispering behind her hand to the girls near her, ” Got something to tell you at playtime.”

Playtime came and Isabel was surrounded. The girls of her class nearly fought to put their arms round her, to walk away with her, to beam flatteringly, to be her special friend. She held quite a court under the huge pine trees at the side of the playground. Nudging, giggling together, the little girls pressed up close. And the only two who stayed outside the ring were the two who were always outside, the little Kelveys. They knew better than to come anywhere near the Burnells.

For the fact was, the school the Burnell children went to was not at all the kind of place their parents would have chosen if there had been any choice. But there was none. It was the only school for miles. And the consequence was all the children of the neighbourhood, the Judge’s little girls, the doctor’s daughters, the store-keeper’s children, the milkman’s, were forced to mix together. Not to speak of there being an equal number of rude, rough little boys as well. But the line had to be drawn somewhere. It was drawn at the Kelveys. Many of the children, including the Burnells, were not even allowed to speak to them. They walked past the Kelveys with their heads in the air, and as they set the fashion in all matters of behaviour, the Kelveys were shunned by everybody. Even the teacher had a special voice for them, and a special smile for the other children when Lil Kelvey came up to her desk with a bunch of dreadfully common-looking flowers.

They were the daughters of a spry, hardworking little washerwoman, who went about from house to house by the day. This was awful enough. But where was Mr. Kelvey ? Nobody knew for certain. But everybody said he was in prison. So they were the daughters of a washerwoman and a gaolbird. Very nice company for other people’s children! And they looked at it. Why Mrs. Kelvey made them so conspicuous was hard to understand. The truth was they were dressed in ” bits ” given to her by the people for whom she worked. Lil, for instance, who was a stout, plain child, with big freckles, came to school in a dress made from a green art-serge table-cloth of the Burnells’, with red plush sleeves from the Logans’ curtains. Her hat, perched on top of her high forehead, was a grown-up woman’s hat, once the property of Miss Lecky, the postmistress. It was turned up at the back and trimmed with a large scarlet quill. What a little guy she looked ! It was impossible not to laugh. And her little sister, our Else, wore a long white dress, rather like a nightgown, and a pair of little boy’s boots. But whatever our Else wore she would have looked strange. She was a tiny wishbone of a child, with cropped hair and enormous solemn eyes—a little white owl. Nobody had ever seen her smile ; she scarcely ever spoke. She went through life holding on to Lil, with a piece of Lil’s skirt screwed up in her hand. Where Lil went, our Else followed. In the playground, on the road going to and from school, there was Lil marching in front and our Else holding on behind. Only when she wanted anything, or when she was out of breath, our Else gave Lil a tug, a twitch, and Lil stopped and turned round. The Kelveys never failed to understand each other.

Now they hovered at the edge ; you couldn’t stop them listening. When the little girls turned round and sneered, Lil, as usual, gave her silly, shamefaced smile, but our Else only looked.

And Isabel’s voice, so very proud, went on telling. The carpet made a great sensation, but so did the beds with real bedclothes, and the stove with an oven door.

When she finished Kezia broke in. ” You’ve forgotten the lamp, Isabel.”

” Oh, yes,” said Isabel, ” and there’s a teeny little lamp, all made of yellow glass, with a white globe that stands on the dining-room table. You couldn’t tell it from a real one.”

” The lamp’s best of all,” cried Kezia. She thought Isabel wasn’t making half enough of the little lamp. But nobody paid any attention. Isabel was choosing the two who were to come back with them that afternoon and see it. She chose Emmie Cole and Lena Logan. But when the others knew they were all to have a chance, they couldn’t be nice enough to Isabel. One by one they put their arms round Isabel’s waist and walked her off. They had something to whisper to her, a secret. ” Isabel’s my friend.”

Only the little Kelveys moved away, forgotten ; there was nothing more for them to hear.

Days passed, and as more children saw the doll’s house, the fame of it spread. It became the one subject, the rage. The one question was, ” Have you seen Burnells’ doll’s house ? Oh, ain’t it lovely ! “ ” Haven’t you seen it ? Oh, I say ! “

Even the dinner hour was given up talking about it. The little girls sat under the pines eating their thick mutton sandwiches and big slabs of johnny cake spread with butter. While always, as near as they could get, sat the Kelveys, our Else holding on to Lil, listening too, while they chewed their jam sandwiches out of a newspaper soaked with large red blobs. ” Mother,” said Kezia, ” can’t I ask the Kelveys just once ? “

” Certainly not, Kezia.”

” But why not ? “

” Run away, Kezia ; you know quite well why not.”

At last everybody had seen it except them. On that day the subject was rather flagged. It was dinner hour. The children stood together under the pine trees, and suddenly, as they looked at the Kelveys eating out of their paper, always by themselves, always listening, they wanted to be horrid to them. Emmie Cole started the whisper.

” Lil Kelvey is going to be a servant when she grows up.”

” O-oh, how awful! ” said Isabel Burnell, and she made eyes at Emmie.

Emmie swallowed in a very meaningful way and nodded to Isabel as she’d seen her mother do on those occasions.

” It’s true—it’s true—it’s true,” she said.

Then Lena Logan’s little eyes snapped. ” Shall I ask her ? ” she whispered.

” Bet you don’t,” said Jessie May.

” Pooh, I’m not frightened,” said Lena. Suddenly she gave a little squeal and danced in front of the other girls. ” Watch! Watch me ! Watch me now! ” said Lena. And sliding, gliding, dragging one foot, giggling behind her hand, Lena went over to the Kelveys.

Lil looked up from her dinner. She wrapped the rest quickly away. Our Else stopped chewing. What was coming now ?

” Is it true you’re going to be a servant when you grow up, Lil Kelvey ? ” shrilled Lena.

Dead silence. But instead of answering, Lil only gave her silly, shamefaced smile. She didn’t seem to mind the question at all. What a sale for Lena ! The girls began to titter.

Lena couldn’t stand that. She put her hands on her hips; she shot forward. ” Yah, yer father’s in prison ! ” she hissed, spitefully.

This was such a marvellous thing to have said that the little girls rushed away in a body, deeply, deeply excited, wild with joy. Someone found a long rope, and they began skipping. And never did they skip so high, run in and out so fast, or do such daring things as on that morning.

In the afternoon Pat called for the Burnell children with the buggy and they drove home. There were visitors. Isabel and Lottie, who liked visitors, went upstairs to change their pinafores. But Kezia thieved out at the back. Nobody was about; she began to swing on the big white gates of the courtyard. Presently, looking along the road, she saw two little dots. They grew bigger, they were coming towards her. Now she could see that one was in front and one close behind. Now she could see that they were the Kelveys. Kezia stopped swinging. She slipped off the gate as if she was going to run away. Then she hesitated. The Kelveys came nearer, and beside them walked their shadows, very long, stretching right across the road with their heads in the buttercups. Kezia clambered back on the gate ; she had made up her mind ; she swung out.

” Hullo,” she said to the passing Kelveys.

They were so astounded that they stopped. Lil gave her silly smile. Our Else started.

” You can come and see our doll’s house if you want to,” said Kezia, and she dragged one toe on the ground. But at that Lil turned red and shook her head quickly.

” Why not ? ” asked Kezia.

Lil gasped, then she said, ” Your ma told our ma you weren’t to speak to us.”

” Oh, well,” said Kezia. She didn’t know what to reply. ” It doesn’t matter. You can come and see our doll’s house all the same. Come on. Nobody’s looking.”

But Lil shook her head still harder.

” Don’t you want to ? ” asked Kezia.

Suddenly there was a twitch, a tug at Lil’s skirt. She turned around. Our Else was looking at her with big, imploring eyes ; she was frowning ; she wanted to go. For a moment Lil looked at our Else very doubtfully. But then our Else twitched her skirt again. She started forward. Kezia led the way. Like two little stray cats they followed across the courtyard to where the doll’s house stood.

” There it is,” said Kezia.

There was a pause. Lil breathed loudly, almost snorted ; our Else was still as stone.

” I’ll open it for you,” said Kezia kindly. She undid the hook and they looked inside.

” There’s the drawing-room and the dining-room, and that’s the——”

” Kezia ! “

Oh, what a start they gave !

“Kezia!”

It was Aunt Beryl’s voice. They turned around. At the back door stood Aunt Beryl, staring as if she couldn’t believe what she saw.

” How dare you ask the little Kelveys into the courtyard ? ” said her cold, furious voice. ” You know as well as I do, you’re not allowed to talk to them. Run away, children, run away at once. And don’t come back again,” said Aunt Beryl. And she stepped into the yard and shooed them out as if they were chickens.

” Off you go immediately! ” she called, cold and proud.

They did not need telling twice. Burning with shame, shrinking together, Lil huddling along like her mother, our Else dazed, somehow they crossed the big courtyard and squeezed through the white gate.

” Wicked, disobedient little girl! ” said Aunt Beryl bitterly to Kezia, and she slammed the doll’s house too.

The afternoon had been awful. A letter had come from Willie Brent, a terrifying, threatening letter, saying if she did not meet him that evening in Pulman’s Bush, he’d come to the front door and ask the reason why! But now that she had frightened those little rats of Kelveys and given Kezia a good scolding, her heart felt lighter. That ghastly pressure was gone. She went back to the house humming.

When the Kelveys were well out of sight of Burnells’, they sat down to rest on a big red drainpipe by the side of the road. Lil’s cheeks were still burning ; she took off the hat with the quill and held it on her knee. Dreamily they looked over the hay paddocks, past the creek, to the group of wattles where Logan’s cows stood waiting to be milked. What were their thoughts? Presently our Else nudged up close to her sister. But now she had forgotten the cross lady. She put out a finger and stroked her sister’s quill; she smiled her rare smile.

” I saw the little lamp,” she said, softly.

Then both were silent once more.

Task description: Hey viewer, welcome or welcome back to my glog, today I’m going to be sharing part of a story called “The Strange but True Story Behind Valentine’s Day”. While this is not your conventional story about Valentine’s Day that’s filled with romance, it’s a fascinating take on a tradition that is widely celebrated on February 14 in many countries around the world. I thought the story was beyond belief, it was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious story. And I hope you like it too, and I wish to do more like this soon. Hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment; thank you for visiting my blog. <3

Strange but true…

You are looking at the skull of an ancient Roman Martyr named Valentine which resides in Rome, in the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin. Whether or not it’s the skull of the martyr who inspired Valentine’s day is a matter of some debate, to put it mildly. Bound up in this debate is the unexpected history of one of the world’s most curious holidays.

 

Let’s start from the beginning…who was Saint Valentine?

The better question is ‘who were?’ Depending on who’s counting, there are between 12 and 14 Saint Valentines, including a Spanish hermit and a woman – Valentina. Turns out, it was a pretty common name during Late Antiquity. As far as anyone can tell, the Saint Valentine of Valentine’s Day was one of two guys preaching the good word in Rome in the third century. One of these two was martyred on February 14th 269, thus giving us the date for his eponymous day.

 

So what did this guy have to do with love and greeting cards, and overpriced restaurants?

Absolutely nothing. After he was killed, Valentine’s remains sat in the Catacombs of San Valentino for a while before moving to Santa Maria in Cosmedin (or the Basilica of Saint Valentine in Terni, if you support the claim of the other Valentine) where they were visited by pilgrims for many years. They probably would have remained venerated, but somewhat anonymous relics for the patron saint of beekeepers and people suffering from the plague had it not been for Chaucer.

 

What does an English mediaeval poet have to do with a Roman martyr?

Geoffrey Chaucer has nothing to do with Roman martyrs but he has a lot to do with English literature and that’s how he created a connection between Saint Valentine and love celebrations. The first written connection between love and Valentine’s Day appears in his poem, Parlement of Foules, written in the late 14th century. He appears to have simply invented the correlation and chalked it up to poetic licence, though it’s also possible that he was drawing from older courtly traditions.

 

So Valentine’s Day is basically a sham invented by a poet in order to make his lines rhyme?

Not exactly. Shortly after Chaucer mentioned love on Valentine’s Day, real-life lovers began to send each other love poems on February 14th. (it’s possible that these predate Chaucer, but we simply don’t know.) To put that another way, people have been writing valentines to their loved ones for over 500 years, so even if there’s no direct connection to a guy who was murdered horribly by ancient Roman pagans, it’s still part of a serious legacy of love.

 

That’s actually pretty heartwarming. I thought it was just another Hallmark Holiday…

Not so fast. Modern Valentine’s day is very much a product of the various industries that benefit from it – namely, stationery, chocolate, flowers, and jewellery. Every year, billions of dollars are spent on these items, even in countries where Western holidays are frowned upon or outlawed have seen an upsurge in Valentine’s Day gifts in recent years. In Saudi Arabia, where the holiday is illegal, there is a thriving black market for red roses and heart-shaped chocolates in February.

 

Interestingly in Japan, possibly due to a translation error in an early chocolate ad (the holiday was imported from the United States after the Second World War), women are expected to give chocolate to lovers, boyfriends, and even male co-workers. However, Japan also celebrates a gift-giving tradition on March 14th where they are expected to give white chocolates of equal or greater value to anyone who gave them chocolate in February.

 

All of this for an old skull sitting in a church in Rome?

Not just any old skull. Relics comprised the backbone of Rome’s original tourism industry which sprung up during the Middle Ages and was based around Christian Pilgrims who came to visit the City’s many churches and holy sites. Relics, in particular, became huge tourist draws because of the miraculous powers they were thought to contain – some of which could be transferred to the faithful who came in contact with them. In our less credulous time, relics have lost some of their ability to draw visitors but they remain impressive, and sometimes macabre additions to many of the churches in Rome.