Talking at cross purposes

I was listening to an interesting feature on the radio yesterday (link to Radio 4 iPlayer). It was talking about whether we see the world and put labels to what we see, or whether we see the world in a particular way because of the labels that we are given. You know the kind of thing (heck, I did a General Linguistics option as part of my degree in the mid-80s, and they were talking about this - it's hardly a new thought). The example people like to give is about Eskimos having over 50 words for snow, the various kinds thereof. Most of us can't distinguish between 50 different kinds of snow, but the Eskimo need to, so they have the words to do it.

The other example is colours. Do we see the colour spectrum in different ways, because our language chops it up in different ways? Those of you who speak Russian (you know who you are), will confirm that in Russian, there is an extra word for blue, compared to English. This made the presenter wonder if Russian is "a more richer language for describing the world" (sic - Come on Radio 4, "more richer"? Seriously?) But being pernickety aside, it is a rather fascinating question. They think that Homer didn't even have a word for blue at all, which is why he famously describes the Mediterranean sea as "wine-dark". Which makes you wonder how the Ancient Greeks would have started a conversation about the sky on a fine summer's day - but maybe that's just a British thing.

Bear with me. This question of whether language simply describes human experience, or whether it somehow forms it, by giving us categories to think within, has long fascinated me. I've posted about it before, talking about how "mummy guilt" is such a misnomer, because we don't really feel guilty per se. More sort of inadequate, or a little bit sub-standard on this occasion. But the English language doesn't have enough words on the spectrum from generally-a-bit-inadequate-but-let's-face-it-we're-all-human to I've-just-committed-a-murder-in-cold-blood. So we can't differentiate properly, and end up with the phrase "mummy guilt", which makes it sound like a bigger deal than it might otherwise have been (and then we feel even guiltier).

Where I'm going with this, is to ponder whether we feel different emotions, because we have different words for them, and therefore whether emotions are culturally conditioned, because they are linguistically conditioned. For example (and I truly am getting to my point here), I really missed the word "cross" when I was in America. It just isn't used at all. You have to be "mad", or "angry". Those seem rather higher octane than "cross". Do Americans not experience that low level slight aggravation (usually caused by children or pets, here's looking at you Hector, the cocker spaniel puppy who at 6 months old should know better than to pee on the floor)? Do they jump off the deep end, from being emotionally at rest, to being full blown angry? Are we Brits more phlegmatic by nature, simmering away quietly, and needed the word "cross" to describe that? Or - and here's the thing I started with - are we fashioned to feel that way from childhood because of the existence and usage of the word? Does it provide somewhere for us to be emotionally, that Americans simply don't have? That sounds superior and a little offensive, and I really don't mean to be so. I'm just pondering. I mean, trust the Brits to be refined and specific even in their anger! Or perhaps we are angry, and just don't want to admit it.

I did discuss the word "cross" with a friend in America, and she said she would use "frustrated", or possibly "annoyed", if she was looking for a less intense version of "mad". But I think I feel differently if I am cross, or frustrated, or annoyed. Cross, to me, is a definite space that I don't think another word exactly defines. Kind of interesting, don't you think?

Peoples, I am so wasted. There's definitely a PhD in here somewhere, isn't there? (And I meant "wasted", not "wasted" there. Blimey, isn't language complicated?)

Name corruptions

Good to know that we're not the only family which has a ridiculous range of names for its dog. Thanks for your comments. Hector is also Hectorious, Hectoroo, What-the-Hec, and probably several others that have slipped my mind.

Over Christmas, and as a result of the influence of my sister, 8-yo got very interested in Strictly Come Dancing. She joined the "Can't Bear Bruce Forsyth" club, and was generally very taken with the glamour and glitz of it all. Hector played his part. She would pick him up, hold him tight, and whirl round the room with him, saying "This is Strictly Come Dogging! This is Strictly Come Dogging!"

Oh dear. Perhaps she'll have forgotten, by the time next season comes round.
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Losing the plot

I thought I ought to post something so that you know I'm ok after the trauma of the tornado. I don't want you to think I've lost the plot.

Speaking of which, I have read on more than one American-in-Britain expat blog how much they enjoy that phrase. 'Lost the plot'. I agree. It's a splendid phrase, and one I've stopped using since being here. I've lost the 'lost the plot'.

Of course I'm also in the business of selling the plot at the moment. Except here, your house in on a lot, not a plot. So the details describe the house as 'lot 25, block 2' of our subdivision. The word is bandied around, as in 'beautiful shady lot', instead of 'beautiful shady plot' (though I realise that in England, it would be described as 'beautiful sunny plot', selling points differing, as they do). Or perhaps even in the UK we don't talk about 'plots' in that way any more. It sounds a bit dated.

A lot, though, is just a parcel of land. As in 'parking lot', for 'car park'. I suppose in the UK, we have to say 'car park', though it's obviously a car park - what else are you going to park there? Your mother-in-law? If we didn't say 'car park', and just said 'park', then that would mean a completely different thing. Which conjures up an interesting mental image. Next time you go to a car park, you can picture your car joining her friends for a go on the swings and the climbing frame. Isn't that what a 'car park' might be?

Anyway, back to 'a lot'. Americans don't use the phrase 'a lot of', as in "I read a lot of blogs". They would say "I read a bunch of blogs". I believe I've posted about this before. But that is one phrase I haven't lost. I use 'a lot' quite a lot. I expect that as I do so, the person I'm talking to has a little inward invisible smile, and thinks "how quaint". So in my everyday speech, when it comes to Englishisms, I have lost a lot, but I haven't lost 'a lot'.

Are you keeping up with me here? Because I want to talk about Big Lots. That's the name of a store, which I haven't ever been to. The idea of Big Lots is just that. They buy big lots of items from other shops or suppliers, and then sell them at discount prices. You can get a tidy bargain at Big Lots, so I'm told, but you never know what's there. It just depends. If you like the random factor in shopping, if you're a T K Maxx fan - and yes, it's T K Maxx not T J Maxx over here, that's not a typo - you'd like Big Lots. You'd also like Tuesday Morning, which is kind of similar, and there's a story behind why it's called Tuesday Morning which I can't remember, though I have to tell you that the one time I went to Tuesday Morning - which was actually on an afternoon and probably not Tuesday - I found it very expensive for a discount store.

My point about Big Lots, though, is that the name makes me laugh. In England, "Big Lots" sounds like the answer a 3 year old gives when you ask them how much ice cream they want.

I remember when I was at school, learning that 'a lot' was two words. For years, I'd written it as one: alot. I wonder if I associated it with 'allotted'. If you have a lot of things, maybe they are allotted to you. That kind of idea. I still like the way it looks, written as one word, actually.

I had better go now, and mow my beautiful shady lot. Such is my lot.

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Sometimes it helps to be American

I'm so often told "I wish I had an accent like yours", but today, American people, I came across a situation where it would have been useful to have an accent like yours.



In a conversation with my mum, she referred to something that "wouldn't have mattered formally". But to clarify, I had to ask her "formally, or formerly?"



Now see, if we'd been American, we wouldn't have had that problem.



Similarly, I might have to seek clarification if she ever talks to me about cheetahs or cheaters, though I expect the context would give it away in that case.

Thoughts on our return to the US

Just to clear up a bit of confusion...



Yes, 14-yo's video does make it look as if we live somewhere beautiful. No, actually, we don't. Some of the pictures he used were taken on our holidays in Colorado and Arkansas. Just felt I had to put the record straight, as I have in the past whinged on about how there's no beautiful scenery near us. Thank you for all your comments, by the way. He loved them.



Anyway, here we are, back again, new school year beginning. Here are three lists. I used to be a civil servant, and I still find lists a good way of organising thoughts. Or of writing a blog post when you can't quite string it together in any other way.



1 Nice things about returning to America



a) People. Friends. A group of three families who organised a 'welcome back' barbecue for us, hiring the party room at the local pool, and whenever I said "what can I bring?" insisted "we've got it covered". Americans do hospitality and welcome in a fabulous way.



b) Each time we come back, it feels very different. Like a child starting a new school year isn't actually any taller than on the first day of term than they were on the last day of the holidays, but somehow they seem it. A step away and a step back brings a new perspective.



c) The weather seems sensitive to our arrival. For the second year running, a hot and humid spell has broken the day after we get back. It's very nice of the weather to be so accommodating. It must know I don't cope very well with the heat. This year, I am especially grateful, as it's been record-breakingly hot. It was over 100 degrees (38 celcius) for over 40 consecutive days, and one day it reached 113 (45). I have a little shared laugh with people here about how in England we all pluck our t-shirts away from our bodies and woggle them about, trying to create a tiny breeze, saying "wow it's hot today" when it gets to 80 degrees. Sorry, British people. I have a joke at your expense. (When I was an au pair in France, the little boy I looked after thought a t-shirt was called a p'tit shirt - isn't that sweet?)



2 Things that have changed in Britain



a) Oreos. I spotted some in a supermarket. That's a shame. They're not a patch on hobnobs, digestives, kitkats, or a million other nice British biscuits. And they leave a horrible black ring round your child's mouth. Don't buy oreos.



b) Jaffa cakes. Don't like them. Never have. Never will. (They haven't changed, so I don't know why they're on this list. Wrong list, Jaffa Cakes.)



c) Moving on to non-biscuit-related topics. Sharpies. Yay, wa-hoo wa-hey. Sharpies have arrived in Britain. I cannot imagine how we have lived without them in a satisfactory manner till now. Go out this minute and buy yourself a Sharpie. (Except you, Josephine, you've already got one.)



d) Speed cameras. They are everywhere. I mean, everywhere. Have they been breeding?



e) Top Gear presenters. They are everywhere. Not only is Top Gear on television whenever you turn it on, but they are presenting pretty much every other television programme there is as well. Including that rather addictive one that's made in Argentina because Health and Safety in Britain wouldn't allow it. What's it called...?



f) More Americanisms in British everyday speech. I don't feel very strongly about this. I think language evolves and grows, and you shouldn't try and put it in a cage and keep it. It needs to rove free, like the buffalo over the plains (though it didn't end terribly well for them in recent history). Rove... or should that be roam...? See, a case in point. We should all be free to grab whatever word we want, to suit the mood and the moment, and if that means that some become more popular and some die out (like the buffalo nearly have done), then so be it (though I do feel sad for the buffalo, so this is an imperfect simile). But I have noticed that there is an increasing number of words that have crossed the Atlantic. 'Mad' meaning 'angry'. 'Smart' meaning 'clever' (I blame smart phones, smart technology, etc for this one). 'Call' instead of 'ring' when talking about phoning someone.



3 Things that are still just too counter-cultural for me to love



a) Over-competitive sports for children. I've said it before, and I'll say it again (in fact I have a ranty blog post just waiting to spout out and rove all over my blog any day now on this very subject).



b) A phone message from a very chirpy student on our answerphone:



"Hi, Dr Husband, this is Francine from X University. I'm just calling on behalf of the university as the new academic year begins, to say how much we appreciate the faculty members. We just want you to know that the university values you so much, and we're so glad you're part of it."



Does this really work for most Professors? Really? Or do they, like Husband, stand glowering at the answerphone, making retorts about how a pay rise would do more to make him feel valued than employing a student on the minimum wage to go down the faculty phone list making vacuous calls.

Mummy guilt

I have been thinking recently about guilt (she says darkly and mysteriously). One of the main ways I come across guilt is that syndrome known to all us mummy bloggers: Mummy Guilt. Here is what I think we should all do about Mummy Guilt (and I include myself as a prime culprit): stop it!

Mummy Guilt is actually a misnomer, if you think about it. It’s not really proper guilt, is it? It’s not guilt as in “I’ve done something that is ethically and/or morally wrong, and I feel remorse” is it? It’s an indistinct sense of inadequacy. It’s the feeling of being not good enough. And… (drum roll at this point, as you all wait for Iota’s pearl of wisdom to drop from your computer screen and roll across the table onto your lap)… of course we’re not good enough, because that is part of the human condition. In fact, here is a paradox (ooh, I love paradoxes). If you were the perfect parent, you wouldn’t be a good parent, because you wouldn’t be preparing your child for a world where people are imperfect. Ta-da! Mummy Guilt solved.

I think we English speakers need a few more words to cover the guilt spectrum. I’m told that in other languages, there is a bigger vocabulary for the thing that we gather under one guilt umbrella (though of course we are good at gathering things under umbrellas, what with our climate being the way it is). Guilt, inadequacy, shame… we tend to put it all in the same basket. The basket that’s keeping dry under the umbrella. So Misnamed Mummy Inadequacy gets in with proper “I’ve committed a heinous crime: guilty as charged, M’Lud, life sentence coming my way” guilt. That’s a bit of a pity, if you ask me. Just makes us mummies feel even worse, labouring under such a weighty term. So, if you’re a passing linguist, perhaps you’d like to toss in your ha’penny worth. In the murky recesses of my memory, I catch a glimmer of a recollection that someone once told me that Russian is good in the guilt arena. Any passing Russian-speaking bloggers?

This is what I notice about Mummy Guilt. We confess to it for random irrelevant things. Things like not taking home-made mince pies to the school Christmas party, or helping your child do her homework ten minutes before you have to leave for school because you forgot about it the night before. Everyone knows that shop-bought mince pies taste nicer, and that you are doing your child a big favour if you are developing in her the ability to produce a piece of work quickly at the last minute and make it look like you spent hours over it. That is an indispensable life skill, if I ever saw one.

Here’s another thing I’ve spotted. Mothers feel bad about not always putting their children first, and sometimes putting themselves first. They know, however, that they must bring up their children to be sensitive to other people’s needs and wants, and not to be selfish. Another paradox. Yum! Why does pursuing the first half make us feel guilty (ie putting ourselves first), and not the second half?

I have plenty more to say on the subject of guilt (dark, mysterious) but I’m going to stop now, because it is 10.30pm on a Sunday night, and I’ve had at least one glass of red wine and am ready for bed, or at the very least a hot bath, and still haven’t come to a satisfactory conclusion on whether 13-yo can do soccer AND tennis in the last quarter of the school year, or whether one sport is enough, and whether we are going to be able to be fair to the younger two children and treat them all the same as they grow up if we set the bar as ridiculously high as to allow for TWO sports as well as TWO musical instruments, and talking of setting the bar high, would perhaps track (that’s 'athletics' or 'field events' to you British readers, at least I think so, I can't really remember any longer - it's not something I ever talked about very much when I lived in the UK) be a better option than tennis anyway since the school has recommended it as a help in transitioning from the middle school to the upper school because the two teams train together? and thinking that whatever we decide, this one issue will seriously scar them all, the three of them, for life, and therefore I am a TERRIBLY BAD MOTHER.

Being told off

When I was growing up, if you did something naughty, you got a telling off, or a ticking off. Nowadays, being ticked off has a different meaning. English children still get told off, though (at least I think they do).

In Scotland, children get a row. "If you don't eat all your peas, I'll give you a row." That kind of thing. It adds a whole new dimension to the nursery rhyme Row, row, row your boat.

I've been thinking about what phrase is used here in the US, and I can't say I know. How can that be? Has the subject never come up in discussion with any of my friends? Surely I must have heard someone mention it, even if only in passing. The only equivalents I can recall having heard are putting children in time-out, or giving them a consequence, (a consequence, not a punishment, mind). But those are actions, not speeches. A good old-fashioned telling off is a speech, isn't it? (Mine usually begin "I've told you before...")

Can anyone tell me if Americans 'tell off' their kids? What is the phrase?

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Running deep

Bloggy Peeps, I wish you'd been here this evening. You would have enjoyed the moment.

I was at my book club, and the member hosting the evening was offering us all drinks. She offered water, and said

"I have water or sparkling water. In fact, let me offer it to you as they do in England. Would you like stale or sparkling? I tell you, that was quite a shock, the first time I heard that. We were in London at a theatre, and in the intermission we went to the bar, and the bar tender asked us if we'd like stale or sparkling water. Didn't sound very nice: stale water! We ordered sparkling."

We were all chuckling merrily about the eccentricities of the English, which I don't mind at all, because it's a hundred per cent kindly meant, and actually, I quite like being called upon to represent an eccentric nation. "Ha ha ha, no, doesn't sound very nice at all, does it? Stale water, ha ha ha". But then gradually I became aware of a sensation in my head that felt like a memory knocking at the door, asking to be let out, and the cogs of my brain started turning slowly... slowly... until... Ping! I had it.

"STILL!" I declared. "Still water. Not stale water. Still water!"

I am a little worried that it took me a minute to access this information, and that it wasn't automatic. I am crossing rather too many lines. But the delay allowed for some nice comic timing, and there was much ensuing hilarity.

Just wish you'd all been there, Bloggy Friends.

You know you've been in America too long, when...

... one of your commenters points out that you've said "a whole heap of things", and you don't see what's odd about that.

... you no longer recognise one slice of ham between two slices of buttered bread as a sandwich. It's simply not worthy of bearing the name.

... your 6 year old daughter tells you she thinks you should get braces on your lower teeth. In her life, 99% of teenagers, and quite a few adults of varying ages, have braces, and crooked teeth are a crime against humanity (and, for the record, mine are only very slightly crooked).

... you find yourself telling someone about Guy Fawkes' night, and explaining that it's a "celebration of democracy" (yes, I used those very words), because that suddenly seems like a positive way of describing the rather sinister practice of burning effigies.

... you still hold onto practice/practise easily enough, and humour will always need its u, but centre begins to look wrong.

... you've written 325 blog posts.

Shorthand phrases

There are a few shorthand phrases that people round here use. I don't know if they're universal in the US, or local usages. I'd be interested to find out - if anyone wants to enlighten me. When you're new and haven't learnt the local lingo, they sound very bizarre.

1) You hear about people 'holding' children. This is short-hand for 'holding back from starting school in the academic year in which they would be entitled to do so'. If you feel your summer-birthday child isn't ready for Kindergarten, you can start them a year later. How many British parents would love that flexibility! Until you understand the short-hand, and unless the context helps you, this does make for some puzzling conversations. You might hear a mother say "We decided to hold Esmerelda because that seemed right for her. We didn't hold Grizelda though. She was a different case. No way would we have held her." It sounds very cruel and cold-blooded doesn't it? Those poor children, denied their parents' physical affection...

2) People talk about 'walking'. This took me a while to figure out. A friend was talking about a teacher at school, and said "she must be about the same age as my sister, because I remember they walked together". I assumed this was an exercise regime. But then I had a conversation a few weeks' later with a student who was telling me "I'm hoping to walk in the summer, but if I can't fit it all in, then I'll have to walk at Christmas". To walk means to graduate - from the graduation ceremony, I assume.

3) The YMCA here is almost always referred to as 'the Y'. You're probably wondering why on earth it comes up in my conversations at all. Well, the Y operates for most people very much as a council leisure or sports centre does in the UK. Everyone uses it for swimming, gym facilities, exercise classes, sports, and children's activities (gymnastics, dance, swimming, team sports). So it is very much a part of daily life, and it's always called 'the Y'. I heard on the radio this summer that the national organisation has decided to change its name officially from the YMCA to The Y. They can't do that! What about the song?

In return, here's an English usage which must sound very odd to American ears, until they get used to it. I've had to stop myself, whenever I've been going to say it. How bizarre it would sound to local people here if I asked them "what date does school break up?" It would be even more bizarre if I asked (as would be perfectly normal in the UK) "when are your kids breaking up?" It conjures a disturbing visual image. Perhaps it's the children who weren't held who break up.

A dutiful post

There are some words that I’ve never quite got to grips with, in an American accent. 'Dennist' is one of them. I need to have my teeth looked after by a fully T-ed dentist. I can’t be doing with dennal issues. Dennist sounds far too much like Dennis the Menace. Then there’s the word 'and'. I’m sorry, but I just can’t love it when it’s pronounced 'ee-und'. Sorry. I’m not too good with words that end –er either. I like those words properly clipped. Eith-a, for example. It’s just not nice when the ending is swallowed back into the mouth and chewed around with an rrrr sound. I couldn’t help flinching a little when I was at 9-yo’s school Winter Show, and 200 children enthusiastically launched into the opening numb-a, singing “In Decembrrrr, We remembrrrr…”.

There is one word which I really can’t cope with at all. It’s the word ‘duty’. That word just begs to be pronounced dyootee, as in “England expects that every man will do his dyootee.” How inspiring would that have been for the navvies if Nelson had announced “England expects that every man will do his doodie”? See my point? Doodie sounds like what you put your dog out in the back yard to perform. It’s just too close for comfort to doo-doos. I feel the meaning of the word does honestly require a little more gravitas in its pronunciation.

I had a long exposure to doodie when 5-yo was keen on the Barbie movie The Princess and the Pauper (por-pah, or pah-prrr – we’ve been through this one, I’m not doing it again for you). Both the princess and the pauper are very enmeshed in thoughts of their responsibilities and doodies. Given the choice, I have to say that I’d go for being a princess, living a life of luxury and inheriting the kingdom, even if it does mean an arranged marriage to the hunky prince Dominic who rules the neighbouring realm - frankly, what’s to complain of there? The pauper’s alternative is living in a lonely hovel, and slaving away night and day for an abusive employer, in order to pay off her parents’ debts. Hm. Tough choice.

I digress. Both girls sing of their devotion to doodie, and it made me laugh each time 5-yo watched the dvd. “It’s my doodie!” beautiful blond Princess Anneliese would chirrup prettily.

Well, now the word has come home to roost. 12-yo is playing the part of Frederick in his school’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. It’s going to be hard for me to keep a straight face when the pirate chorus opens with:

“We sail the ocean blue, and our saucy ship’s a boodie,
We are sober men and true, and attentive to our doodie”.

Then 12-yo has the line:

“It was my duty under my indentures, [Back to dentistry again, Ed.] and I am the slave of duty”.

Of course the audience will already adore his English accent, and if he says “dyootee” in his opening lines, he will just steal the show.

I'm not even going to get started on the whole byootee/booty issue. Barbie princesses, for example, love to assert that their booty is on the inside, which is anatomically very curious.

Oh, it’s so complicated being English.

Post-script 1: Oops. Seems Nelson didn’t say that line anyway. He signaled it from his ship with flags. They’re so clever in the navy. Thought of ways to get the word out fast, even in those pre-Twitter days.

Post-script 2: Oops. Seems “We sail the ocean blue” is HMS Pinafore, not Pirates of Penzance. Listen. I’m a blogger, not a G&S expert, not a naval battle historian. A blogger. Right? Give me a break.

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Obama and Santa

Did you all catch President Obama's speech on accepting the Nobel Peace Prize? I like the man. I'd love to invite him round for dinner, him and his good lady wife. They could bring the kids too. I expect he's too busy though.

One of the exciting things in his speech was a very fine example of what I was talking about here. Don't bother to click. I'll remind you. I was talking about how in England we say

"the baby wants to be fed",

but in both Scotland and America, that would be

"the baby wants fed".

In his Nobel speech, Obama was talking about the US being a moral standard bearer in the conduct of war, and he said:

"That is why I prohibited torture. That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay closed."

See? If he'd been brought up in leafy Buckinghamshire, England, he'd have said

"That is why I ordered the prison at Guantanamo Bay to be closed".

I was listening to NPR, and they gave a pretty good broad-brush examination of the ideas in the speech, but honestly, for in-depth word by word analysis like this, you have to turn to 'Not wrong, just different'. Oh you must be so glad you read my blog.

Incidentally, since I know that you are on the edge of your seats with this post, I'm going to tell you about another of those items where Americans have followed the Scots rather than the English. Santa. Yes, jolly old Santa Claus. In England, he is quite definitely Father Christmas. When I lived in England I knew that the Americans called him Santa Claus, but I had no idea that the Scots did too.

And if you have any other questions on England, Scotland, America, Obama or world peace, then just drop me a line. I'll help if I can.

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Eye wonder

The differences in medical terminology between the US and the UK provide a rich seam for expat bloggers to mine. Have you ever thought, oh UK readers, how confusing it must be for Americans to hear they need to register at the doctor's surgery? What? There are plenty more, which I think I've blogged about before, but I'm not going to look for the link because (a) I'm not sure it's terribly interesting, and (b) I'm in the Honda customer lounge waiting while my vehicle to be serviced (I said "vehicle" not "car" - see how naturally I speak the lingo these days), and I'm determined to finish the post in the time it takes to do an oil change and a few other bits and bobs, with my new-found speed-writing skills. That's what blogging every day for a month does for you.

One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).

On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said

"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",

she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.

She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"

Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.

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Words

Day Ten of 'The Daily Post' (and it's not about laundry).

The difference between British English and American English is not just a question of accent. It's not just that we have different words for the same item: torch for flashlight, rubbish bin for trash can. It's the phraseology, the emphases, the tone, the whole way of speaking.

I'm English, but lived in Scotland for 6 years immediately before coming to the US. I have been intrigued to hear some of the colloquialisms from Scottish English in people's conversation here. Of course it isn't intriguing at all, really, but quite obvious. When Scots emigrated to America they brought their way of speaking with them, just as much as English people. Here are a few examples.

If you are English, you say "the cat needs feeding", or "the cat needs to be fed". In Scotland or over here, this would be "the cat needs fed". It sounds odd to English ears.

In England, you say "I would have gone". In Scotland, I often heard "I would have went", and I've heard that here too. Again, it sounds very odd to English ears.

But my favourite is a word that has no real English equivalent. Your bottom/bum/backside/butt/seat (that last one courtesy of my grandmother) in England, is in Scotland, your bahouki. I'm sure that must be where the American patouti originated from. I'm so glad the Scots brought their bahoukis with them when they crossed the Atlantic. It's a word that deserves to be passed on and preserved in another culture.

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Saints

I was telling Husband that one British English-ism I’ve found it hard to drop (and I’m not sure I’ve even tried, to be honest), is the way we pronounce the ‘Saint’ in names. 5-yo overheard our conversation.

“What’s that? What do you mean? What are you saying? What are you talking about?”

I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be an easy one to explain to a 5 year old, but I thought I’d have a go.

“Well, when churches or streets are called St James’ or St John’s, in England we don’t say Saynt James’ or Saynt John’s, we say Ssnt James’ or Ssnt John’s, but here in America, they do say Saynt James’ or Saynt John’s. They say the word Saint like Saynt, whereas we say the word Saint like Ssnt.”

Crystal clear. I say that with confidence, because she totally got the point.

“You mean like we say St Derella?”

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Christmas words

We had a few interesting linguistic excursions in our house over the Christmas break.

I don't go out of my way to encourage rogue versions of carols, although the last few posts might lead you to think so. Nonetheless, 4-yo came up with her own. She would sing

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly
'Tis the season to be naughty"

and then laugh uproariously. (Try saying it with an American accent, and you'll see that the rhyme is closer than it looks.)

Then 8-yo asked the following question:

"You know when a boy thinks a girl is pretty, he says she's hot? Well, if he thinks she isn't pretty, does he say she's cold?"

Good question. Meanwhile, one of the little presents that Santa put in 4-yo's stocking was a packet of panties (her older brothers will never understand how panties and socks could possibly count as presents, for heaven's sake, but luckily Santa understands girls as well as he understands boys). Husband picked up the packet and said "oh, low rise panties. At first glance I thought it said low risk panties." Bridget Jones, you have so much to answer for.

Then there was a totally bizarre moment at the lunch table. We were enjoying smoked salmon, and encouraging the kids to try it. 4-yo asked the question "Is Gran smoked?" Hm. You're always told to answer kids honestly, so I replied "No. Um. No. Gran isn't smoked." That seemed an honest response.

It was only after long pondering that I worked out the background to the question. A couple of weeks before Christmas, 11-yo's class had been discussing the evils of smoking. I had been telling him how in his grandparents' generation, many people smoked, because they didn't know how bad it was for you. His grandparents had done so, but had given up when the ill effects became known.

Smoked salmon. Grandparents who smoked. Isn't the world a complicated place for a 4 year old?

The accent is on

I know I talk about accents a lot, but in my defence, I am frequently required to talk about accents in my real life, so it seems only fair that I should be allowed to in my cyber life too. I'm very used to talking about my own accent. Most people remark on it, if they don't know me. Most of them say they love it. That's an easy conversation to have. "Thank you" I say, "it came for free. I didn't have to study it, or pay for it, or anything." It's a nice conversation (if a little repetitive).

This week I've had two rather different conversations about my accent. The first was in a park. A five year old girl came up and introduced herself to 4-yo and asked her to play. They spent a happy time, while the mother asked me where I was from, how long I've lived here... the usual. Then as 4-yo and I were leaving, the little girl came over, looking rather puzzled and intrigued. She finally came out with "You speak excellent Spanish".

This made me laugh, not only for the way she had misunderstood, but also because it was such a very polite grown-up phrase coming from such a little girl. I explained to her that I wasn't speaking Spanish, otherwise she wouldn't understand what I was saying, that it was English, the same as she spoke, but it just sounded a bit different. Her mother came to my rescue: "like Charlie and Lola - she's from the same place as Charlie and Lola".

I felt the cache I normally enjoy from my accent was a little depleted (if you've never heard Charlie and Lola talk to each other, then find a clip on youtube or listen to a story here, and you'll see why it's not the most flattering of comparisons). Then getting 4-yo's hair cut today at Master Cuts, one of the other clients, a young chap with an adventurous hairstyle, said "I love your accent" (no surprises there). "My room-mate's parents sound a bit like you. They're from England, I think, but I find them really hard to understand if they talk fast". "Whereabouts are they from?" I asked, gearing up for the appropriate variation on the northern/southern/Liverpudlian follow-up conversation. "Um... I think they're from Dubai".


Oh, and speaking of hairdressers, I have another hairdresser-and-accents story. I have had to find myself a new cosmetologist (as you'll remember they are called), as my old one has moved away to Connecticut. Most inconsiderate of her. So off I went to a new one. The usual format: she asked me how I wanted my hair, I chatted away to her about my hair while she was washing it, I then moved back to the vertical chair, and as she started to cut, she looked at me in the mirror and struck up a bit of polite conversation. But her opener was far from predictable: "So have you lived here all your life?" Her face was completely straight, not a hint of irony. I didn't want to embarrass her, so once I'd recovered from the shock, I just replied "No, we've been here a couple of years", and then asked about her. I mean, judging by other people's reactions, I don't pass for a local just yet.

I'd like to think it was a bet, and that as I left the cosmetology salon, the entire staff and remaining clientele erupted in yelping laughter and shouts of "I can't BELIEVE you did that!" But I don't think so. I think she just hadn't noticed my accent. Did a nice job on my hair, though.

Falling tones

I've just seen an advertisement in Starbucks for their signature hot chocolates, and the caption reads

"Make fall seem a little more like autumn".

(I might not have got the wording exactly right, but near enough.)

Help me, o American readers, understand this. Does the word autumn have connotations for you that fall doesn't? Does autumn conjure up pictures of toasty fireplaces and cosy sofas, crumpets and melted butter, golden sunshine through orange leaves, ripe berries and dark chestnuts, frosty mornings dissolving into mellow afternoons (how am I doing here?) that fall doesn't?

Or do you think the British are a nation who sit around drinking luxury chocolate beverages all day long?

An accent post

Now, here’s a “Not wrong, just different” classic. I think you may have to dig deep on this one. We all like to think we’re liberal-minded, open to cultural variation, happy to embrace difference. Have you ever thought about accents, though?

When we moved to Scotland from the south of England, people were intrigued to know if our children were picking up a Scottish accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they would say. Then we moved to America, and when they see us, people will no doubt be intrigued to find out if our children have picked up an American accent. “Ooh, how lovely!” they will say. Or not. Now I’m not a gambling woman (not with money, anyway), but I would lay a large sum on a bet that we will not get that reaction once. In fact, before we came, a few people told us stories of their friend/sister/cousin who moved to America/Australia/Canada and their kids lost the accent when they came back home within weeks/months/days. It seems a reasonable thing to assume that a fellow Brit will share a dislike of an American accent, and also that it is ok, even in these politically correct days, to say so. Perhaps I could have a bit of fun, and pretend to my friends that I am charmed by my kids’ new accents. “Such cute intonation – we’re so thrilled for them” I could say, and watch friends’ faces as they struggle to work out if I’m being serious.

I don’t think there is any way to justify our attitudes to accents. I mean, it’s not as if an accent could be evolutionarily superior, is it? The soft lilting tones that we so admire in a Scot didn’t serve his cavemen ancestors any more useful purpose than the nasal elongated vowels of his American counterpart. I’m trying to think how one could argue that case. The caveman Scot was naturally better at imitating the subtle sounds of wild birds, and was thus better equipped to hunt them down and feed his family on nutritious poultry. The caveman American was better at warning his family of impending danger, because his loud holler carried farther. Hm. Not very convincing either way, is it? I think we just have to accept that when it comes to accents, we are all very insular and deeply prejudiced.

Or course it works in our favour here. We all know that the Americans just love the English or Scottish accent. At one point in my life, when it was a vague possibility (only a vague one) that I might move to New York, my friend there was very keen on the idea, on the basis that if I shared an apartment with her, and used my voice on her answerphone, her social life would take a dramatic turn for the better. It’s jolly spiffingly splendid to be on the receiving end of some positive discrimination, for something that comes for free. It’s not as if I have to work at my accent, or practise it, or pay for it. It’ll have to do me instead of cosmetic surgery for the duration of our time here. It’s not quite right, though, you have to agree. (Not quite right, but not so wrong that I didn’t shamelessly use my accent to avoid a ticket when a policeman on a motorbike pulled me over for having out of date tags – “oh miy goodness mee, offissa, Eye’m terriblee terriblee sorreee” - but that’s another story).

I must have become more used to the accent here than I realize. I went to see a high school production of Oliver recently, and after a few minutes, I began to wonder why the actors were all putting on odd, slow, stilted voices. Then the penny dropped (duuh). They were putting on English accents, and putting them on very well in fact. It must have been exhausting to have to sound so pretentious all the time. Is that what I sound like to them? And if so, why do they find it so attractive? But it will take a less self-interested woman than me to stand up at this point in time and say “Not attractive, just different”.

A puzzle

I know, I know. You want me to tell you what Hallowe'en was like here. Be patient, I will. Perhaps I'll use the extra hour we have tonight to do that. But first, here is something that is puzzling me.

When I go shopping in my local Dillons (you know me, life in the fast lane), there is an aisle where the sign tells me I may find water, juice, soda and aseptic drinks. Hello? Aseptic drinks? I haven't actually managed to identify which are the drinks in that aisle that are the aseptic ones, but when I do so, am I to conclude that all the others are, in fact, septic? Oh goody. I knew they tasted better over here.