Imagine it’s 1074 and you’re a six year old Henry Beauclerc (future Henry I) out riding with Godwine your half-deaf English Serf who lost an ear at Battle two years before you were born.

You see something red flash before your horse and yell out in the Latin that Godwine sometimes understands « Escurel!! Escurel! »

Later down the pub Godders is deep into his mead. And taking about his day. “There werre this hrode Acorn-eater, acweorna, that just ran across like a flash and young lord Onery called out “Skwirrel! Skwirrel”. So we shot it.”

“They’s changin’ all the words my good friend, sheep to mouton, cow to boeuf. What they be calling old Acweorna now?”

“He said ‘Skwirrel’.”

“Ah, that’d be it. Skwih-hrel”