Younger Son noticed that the little statue of Medusa, which he was going to paint and use in an Overly Complicated Board Game, had a muscular tail that hung down below her feet.

“Hmmm,” said Elder Son. “How will she stand up?”

“She needs a plinth,” I piped up. Usually, I remain stoically mute when they talk about games, because I have no idea what they are talking about. Their conversation rises above the level of dialect; it’s a more of a patois of English.

But I had been subconsciously waiting for a long time to trot out the word “plinth.”  Plinth is one of those single use words that means only one very specific thing; that is, a special base for a statue to stand on. It’s a well-rested word, unlike “get” or “put,” neither of which get many chances to sit down.

Now, mind you, most plinths are large; some hold life-size replicas of humans; others, horses. In this case, it was obvious that my boys would need something tiny that would serve the same purpose on a small scale.

I weighed in again.

“Spool,” I said.

They both turned to look at me. “Spool?” they said almost in unison.

“Sure,” I said. “A sewing-thread spool. I’ll see if I have any that are close to empty.”

And sure enough, I found one. In honor of the game, I wound the remaining thread onto another partial spool, and proudly presented my son with this prize.

Now mind you, I seem to remember throwing out a bunch of spools not too long ago. Just goes to show, you never know what might be useful. And Murphy’s Law, Section III, Article 5, Subsection 3 states that you never find a use for things like that until after you have thrown them away.

But at least now the lovely Medusa has a suitable perch from which to work her magic spells.

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For your further edification: What’s the difference between a dialect and a patois? And how do you pronounce patois?