It has been a wretched summer in Brittany. The worst in years. Nothing but rain and temperatures more appropriate to February or March. Cutting the grass has become a Sisyphean task. It grows behind you almost as fast as you can cut it. Bastille Day was a washout. I watched the local fireworks display from our bedroom window.
This week’s wordwatch looks at the use of “commonplace” and how it has evolved from denoting something exceptional to mean something trivial.