Some years ago people who wanted to be pompous and add depth to a comment used the expression 'this moment in time', when they meant 'now'. Thespeaker wanted to show that aglimpse of eternity had been revealed,a grasp ofan existential truth that was beyond the capacity ofthe rest of us mere mortals.

Once the words 'this moment in time',were uttered, my mind shut down, realising thespeaker believed the apogee of the talk had been reached when, in reality, it was the nadir.Whatever else followedcould only be evenmore laboured prose.

Since then, more gobbledegook has followed.I particularly detest the following cliches:

Re-frame: I believe this means to look at something in another way.

Blue sky thinking: to be optimistic.

Sing from the same hymn sheet: Understand that we're talking about the same thing and are in agreement.

A window of opportunity: We have the opportunity.

Let's run it up the flagpole: Let's see if it's going to work. Let's see where the weaknesses are.

Flown the nest: (I hate this one particularly. Tweet about it in a different way, for goodness sake.)

The children have left home. What's wrong with saying that? If you want to be Fred Flintstoneyou might try: They've foundtheir own caves. Or, they're in their own tepees, caravans, tents, yurts, igloos, palaces, castles. Anything, but leave the nest out of it.

Piled on the pounds/ the weight dropped off:There must be another way of saying this, though I can't think of one.

At the end of the day: Grrr, grrr. Forget 'At the end of the day'. Just say what your aiming for. It sounds a lot better.

I see where you're coming from: I understand (the point you are making).

So, there we are. I've given youthe long and the short of it.

September is a transitional month, the short chapter between summer and the rest of the year.Heralding new beginnings for pupils and students, it is the time to cast aside frivolity and get down to some seriously hard work.

The temperature can be unreliable, so justwhen we'vepacked away oursummer clothes, along comes a mini heatwaveto scorch us, but not this year, not yet, anyway.

The skies have frowned hard all day, splattering raindrops at will and being generally annoying. No sign of 'Haf Fach Mihangel'or 'Indian Summer' for us, just loads of 'Ugg' boots andlittle sign of the poetic 'mellow fruitfulness'.

I've a copy of 'The Cloud Spotter's Guide' which I've not read, yet. My interest in'Cumulonimbus', red skies andmackerel skies, tends tovary.

If I'm painting, the sky can be aproblem to get right.Prince Charles says he was advised to use a paper tissue to create texture in the sky for a watercolour painting, but I have decisions about how much sky to allow into the painting.

John Constable, thepainter, lovedSeptemberskies, describing them as 'silvery, windyand delicious'.

Kyffin Williams's skies are heavy, ponderous very often, and I like the confidence with which he paints them.

Some years ago, a man who lived ten miles from Haverfordwest was inhis garden when he noticed clouds rolling swiftly across the sky, as night was drawing in. He immediately called his family to look.Pointing out significantcloud shapes, hesawa war looming, with massed armies gathering.

Not long afterwards World War 11 broke out. Makes you look atclouds in a different way, doesn't it?

Trefin is a small village situated to the north of Pembrokeshire, between Fishguard and St David's. The old name, Trefaen, means 'village on a rock'.

Cerys Matthews, mother of Glenys Pearly-Felin and Johnny Tupelo Jones was married to Seth Riddle in Rehoboth Chapel, Trevine. Her parents live here and she went to Fishguard County Secondary for her 'A' levels.

Years ago, my daughters and I went to Cardiff to a Tom Jones concert where Cerys and Tom sang 'Baby it's Cold Outside' and the place was packed. Trefin is a long way from Nashville, I suppose, but who needs Nashville?

I like out of the wayplaces and Trefin is isolated. When I look at John Knapp Fisher's paintings of this part of Pembrokeshire I identify with theloneliness he captures. Stunted trees bend in the wind, one lime washed cottage is silhouetted against a distant coastline, rocks and boulders jut out of sparse grassy knolls.

There was aflour mill in Trefinfor more thanfive hundred years. Crwys, the poet and bard,wrote Wales's most famous poem about this mill.

Saturday night Harry stayed in a farmhouse nearby, an end of season get together for the lifeguards.

To reach the farmhouse it's necessary to negotiate a one way track, (few passing points) and trees overhang the lane making it dark. In winter, frost and snowmake travelling difficult if you live here.

Today I pondered all this and,you know what? I'drather be sitting in a little cafe in this part of the world, some farm vehicles passing by, than any glitzy shopping area you could think of, unless it's Cannes, of course.

Years agohiring fairs were the 'job centres' of their time, where servants could find work. (Thomas Hardy's 'The Mayor of Casterbridge'touches on this).

I've been looking at an account book dating from 1807, written by a Pembrokeshire farmer's wife.

Servants were hired from one Michaelmas to the next and, if unmarried,lived with the farmer and his family.

Many farmhouses were built in a style known as 'longhouse' and there was noupstairs passageway.

The bedrooms led into each other, so presumably those living at the far end of the house found it prudent to go to bed first, otherwise they had to pass through bedrooms already occupied, which might be a hazard. (I shall leave that to your imagination.)

A man servant was paid about 9 a year, a lad 5.10 shillingsanda maidabout 5. (No equal rights in those days. Hardly any rights at all, for anyone).

On one particular farm in Trevine (the Trevine made famous by the song: 'Nid yw'r felin heno'n malu, Yn Nhrefin ym min y mor), maids were givena pound of wool and a flannel apron as part of their wageswhen they began work.

5 a year did not stretch far and one entry shows that Jemima, a farm maid, needed a gown and a bonnet. She went to Fishguard, a distance of about ten miles, to buy the articles and they cost 2, whichwas almost halfher yearly earnings.

Jack James, a servant on this particular farm, had to pay eight and sixpence for a pair of shoes and 1/6 for his mother's candles.

Handkerchiefs cost between two shillings and two and sixpence, which approximates to forty hankies for a year's work.

Hard times, indeed.

About thirty five years ago we paid to have insulation injected into the walls of our then five year old house.

I no longer have the receipts but I remember itbeing an expensive job. We were toldwe would see a reduction in our heating bills and soonrecover the initial outlay.

True, once it was installed we usedfractionally less energy but, when we moved fifteen years later, we still had not recoveredthe cost. As a result of the insulating work the wall cracked, which meant paying forrepairs, eliminating any savings- (there weren'tany, as far asI could see.)

Out shopping recently, Iwasasked to answer some questions about global warming, solar panels, energy saving-eco-warrior, that type of thing.

Did I believe in the concept of global warming?

'To a point'. (Ihedged my bets and was not asked where the'point' was).

Did I believe insulation cuts down on heat loss?

'Yes'.

Would I pay to have someinstalled?

'Not if it is going to take one hundred years to recoup the cost, apart from the fact I won't be here then'.

Surprisingly, the interviewer agreed with me that it was an expensive business and took a long time to pay for itself.

We have been in our present abode for more than twenty years and we can havefree installation because of our age. We might have the roof done but never the walls again.

I've been looking atinformationthat says to insulate even a small housewith a top-of-the-range pack is going to cost an eye-popping 90,000. The house needs to be vacated for six months (hotel bills,rent-a-house, caravan, stay with nearest and dearest as long as they can bear you etc) and then, at the end of one hundred years of glorious anticipation, you will make your money back.

No-one is going to be idiot enoughto mortgage their life away for that.

Who arethese peoplewho thinkpackages like thiswill catch on?

Gives a whole new meaning to the words 'saving for the future'.

I've always loved poetry,the sound ofthe words, their rhythm, the images they conjure.

(When my grand-daughter, Maudie, was three, she learnt the word 'porcelain' and used to whisper it to herself. Her lips were rounded as she articulated the exploding 'por' sound. This made me realise, again, how important it is to read poetry aloud, as well as from the page).

Reading poetry with appreciation sets the standard forprose writing.

Poetry demonstratesthatrhythm and balanceis necessary for the sake of style, and this applies to prose as well.

The last sentence of my novel, 'Salt Blue',reads: 'My name floats through the air, like white light condensing on leaves, on flowers, like oil, floating on water'.

'Like white light' has an internal rhyme scheme, and the repetition of'like white light' is picked up in 'like oil'. Similarly we have 'on leaves, on flowers' and 'on water'.

I have used poetic techniques to write prose with the intentionof bringing a long novel to a slow close. The effect of using words such as 'white', 'water', 'leaves', 'flowers'and 'oil' is to createalmost a sacred space, the feeling of resolution. Stella knows and accepts who she is.She is secure in her identity and this is a blessing.

In ' Salt Blue ', too, I've conjured up colours to represent feelings:

'It is the reds, more than any other colour, that vibrate. Cochineal, verbena, magenta, carmine, fuchsia, flaunting crocosmia, Chinese lacquer red, Marilyn Monroe lipstick red and all the geranium combinations that lead to the deep red ox-blood, the same shade as our front doorstep . ..'

Not poetry, quite, but uplifting, creating a mood. Red, the colour of passion, of life, to betaken in small amounts or great, brimming mouthfuls, depending on your need.

One reviewer said 'Gillian Morgan is'nuts' on colour: mayonnaise yellow, slime lime green, Temple gold, Geisha Redand she makes them all up!'

Colourwrites the poetry, drenches the rainbow. Drink deeply.

Harry and Oliver are off to college on Monday. Emma, their mother, is breathing a sigh of relief.

Ihad coffee and crisps with the boys and a friend of their's recently.

The friend was returning to universityfor his second year studying physics. I asked if he likes it and he did.

Harrywas unsure about how much more education he could'stand'. Oliver nodded agreement.

The friend said they'd be fine once theygot started on their courses.'You get addicted to learning' he told them. The boys looked amazed.

'What? You get addicted to learning?'

('Can't see that happening to them', Emma said, when I told her).

The trouble is, Harry and Oliver havebeen talking to friends taking a 'gap' year.

'What are the benefits ofit?' I enquired tentatively.

They had their answers:

'You get a break from study'.

'You come back more mature'.

'You come back ready to learn' (!)

'It looks good on your CV'.

Employers are culpable for putting too much emphasis on the benefits of a gap year. Students taking gap years are a year behind when applying for jobs and a year behind when seeking promotion.

I went to my school year's reunion a while ago. Most of my classhad left school at seventeen, goingstraight into jobs like the bank or Civil Service. They hadsupported themselves for most of their lives. Money was in shorter supply at that time and education was seen as an expensive 'extra'.

Whilstthat situation was not ideal, many got promoted in their jobs andended up a long way from where they had started.

Education is a contentious issue. It is a privilege, too. Knowledge is power. Never underestimate it.

Peter told me he'd been readingthat supermarket bread contains relatively lowlevels of salt compared tospecialist 'artisanal' baked bread.

He's fond of bread andeatsa few slicesa day, but has to watch his blood pressure.

'Don't worry about it', I replied.'You would probably haveto eat quite a lot of salty bread before itraised your blood pressure'.

Usually, I don't eatbread but Iate thebreakfastbread in Cannes and the croutons and tapenade supper-time.

Katekept remarking onthe armfuls of bread batons French women bought.

A book she'd read claimed French women don't get fat because they eat only small portions of delicious food. 'But they're alwaysbuying bread', she said,incredulously.

'We haven't actually seen them eating it, though', I pointed out. 'Perhaps it's for theirfamilies.'

By the week's end, Kate had come to a conclusion. 'It's not that they eat small amounts. They just don't eat'. She had a book title in mind: 'Forget food.Have an expresso and a'smoke' instead', because that's allmany people around us were having.

'Anyone who doesn't eat can bethin', she declared. (I could see another good book titlethere).

One evening, Maudiewanteda bedtime storyso I told herabout the 'Lady of the Lake.' (I had just seen part ofa television programme about rebuilding the village hall in Myddfai.)

As life is short and my story long, I shall askyou toforgive me foreditingthis tale.

A shepherd boy fell in love with a beautiful woman who emerged from a lake called 'Llyn-y- Fan- Fach' ,which isin the Black Mountainsof Carmarthenshire.

Attempting to share hisbread with her, she spurned him, saying, 'Cras dy fara, Ni hawdd fy nala'- 'Your bread is hard, you will not catch me'.

That night, his mother heardwhat had happened.

She suggestedofferingsomedamp dough the next day, because the ladylived in the water and might prefer it.

Next day, the girl was offeredthe bread mixture, but mocked him. 'Llaith dy fara','Damp your bread, I will not have thee.'

Dejectedly, the boy related to his mother what had occurred. Her suggestion was thathetry a half-baked loaf the following day.

All the nextday the shepherd lingered by the lake but with no sign of his love. Evening fell andhe was about to go home when he threw the bread in the water and the lady appeared. This time, she accepted his gift and his marriage proposal butshe made some conditions.

If he struck her three times, even very gently, he would lose her.

They were married and, in time,a baby boy was born. One day, when the lady was slow getting ready for a christening, her husband put his hand on her back andurged her to hurry.

'Blow number one', she declared.

Thenthey had a second son. Attending a wedding shortly afterwards she cried loudly. Her husband tapped her arm, in an effort to comfort her and quieten her.She told him that was the second time he had struck her.

Shortly after havingathird son the husband and wife attendeda funeral, where the ladylaughed uncontrollably.

This resulted in her husbandslapping her cheek.lt was the third blow and she disappeared into the lake, never to return, leaving her husbandand their three sons distraught.

The lady'slegacy was to endow her sons with the gift of healing. Their fame spreadand theywere known as the 'Physicians of Myddfai'.