A question from 8-yo yesterday:
"Mummy, is rocket science difficult?"
I just said yes. I said it must be very difficult and complicated to send up a rocket into space. But it's an assumption, isn't it? I could have said "Rocket science? Nah. Any old numpty can work for NASA if they want. Baking muffins that turn out light and fluffy. That's what's really difficult."
Because that is what I find difficult. Nay, impossible.
And remembering that red wine, though delicious, doesn't agree with me. (It's an age thing, I think; this is a new problem.)
And reversing in a straight line (I'm ok manoeuvring, but I find it hard to reverse straight back).
And spelling "manoeuvring", (though I hadn't thought about that one till just then).
What about you? What do you find difficult?
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Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Showing posts with label words. Show all posts
Friday, March 22, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Enough with the gloom - here's me being positive about motherhood and inventing a new word
The last two posts have been a little gloomy, so I'm changing the mood (though staying on the theme).
This video did the rounds a few years ago, but you might have missed it. I LOVE it. It makes me laugh over and over again - I watch it regularly. But more than that, when I am at a loss for words with my kids, I sing bits of it to them. It's become part of our family language.
I hope you enjoy it.
There's a version on youtube with lyrics, if you found it hard to keep up with her.
I've decided I can't be doing too badly as a mum. I told 15-yo this morning that yesterday, after he'd cleaned up his room, there were 12 pairs of underpants at the top of the laundry basket. I counted them, as I put them in the washing machine (I wouldn't have known he possessed that many).
"That means", I continued, "that before they were in the laundry basket, they were on your bedroom floor. TWELVE pairs of dirty underpants on your bedroom floor."
"No..." he countered, with an endearing grin. "Actually, just eleven. I was wearing one. I put it straight in the laundry basket. Just eleven."
And before I could think of a reposte, he came up with another idea.
"And in fact, I would say it was only eight or nine, because some were on top of others, and not actually touching the floor at all."
This is my point. I might not be very good at training my children to pick up their dirty laundry (can anyone top 12 pairs of underpants?), but I am doing a good job in teaching them that a winsome grin and a clever quick answer will get you out of trouble on many an occasion.
I've just invented a new word. In this house we have floordrobes, and we also have floorndry baskets.
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Saturday, February 23, 2013
A new word
This morning, my younger son told me about a new word that's been invented. It ties in rather nicely with the post I wrote yesterday. The word is floordrobe. Do I need to explain its meaning to you? No - I think you can work it out.
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Wednesday, January 30, 2013
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?)
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?)
Friday, July 27, 2012
The Olympics Opening Ceremony
OK, so it's 1.00am, and I should be in bed, but you have to admit, it was good. It was very good. I liked it. I liked it a lot.
I understood the cultural references - James Bond, Mr Bean. That's always a relief to a returning expat. It can feel like you're missing an in-joke, when people refer to something that, because you've lived outside the country, you simply don't know about. TOWIE, for example. So I was glad I could understand Bond, Bean, and Chariots of Fire.
I loved the copper petals coming together to make a cauldron. I really enjoyed the fact that the torches were passed on to a group of young athletes, not public figures yet, who took centre stage for the end of the Olympic flame journey. Much better to look forward than back.
I thought the ceremony should have ended with the fireworks, rather than Paul McCartney. Perhaps you had to be there. Perhaps it needed a good arm-waving singalong at the end, to send the crowd off happy. But could someone point out to me the significance of "Hey Jude"? I mean, if you have to go Beatles singalong, why not have everyone singing "Imagine"? That's far more in the Olympic spirit. Imagine all the people, living life in peace, and all that.
The bit I liked best was the parade of the teams from 204 different countries. There were some fabulous costumes in there. Senegal in elegant yellow, you looked wonderful. America, I'm sorry, but you looked like British Airways cabin crew, with your navy berets and co-ordinating neck scarves. Bulgaria, in your blue and white check suits, you should just be glad that medals are awarded on sporting prowess and not dress sense - though golf is going to be included as an Olympic sport in 2016. You'll be well prepared for that.
I was irritated that all the announcements were made in English and French. Why French? English, because this is England, and we speak English in England. And French, because...? We reckoned it was as a courtesy to the French geezer from the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge. Rogge, the Frogge.
One other little niggle... Why is the British team called 'Team GB'? I am offended on behalf of my Northern Irish compatriots. We are (correct me if I'm wrong) the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. To call our Olympic athletes 'Team GB' is wrong, lazy, and a bit offensive, honestly. It should be 'Team UK'. Or perhaps the Northern Irish members took one look at the white and gold Elvis suits that they'd have to wear, and said "count us out".
So all in all, the Olympics have got off to a fine start. London, beaucoup de points. Oh, and a new word has snuck into the English language. Always interesting to get a new word. Were you listening as the coach took the oath on behalf of all the coaches? He said something about the "principles of Olympism". Olympism? Really? Olympism? Well, I kind of like it, now I've typed it a few times.
Happy Games, everyone.
Monday, April 23, 2012
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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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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Tuesday, December 13, 2011
I fuond tihs fasctianing
"Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe."
I got as far as the word "wrod" before I realised anything was wrong. Which just proves the point. But then I'm a dreadful skim reader. One of my very bad habits.
I wonder if that's why middle children are so screwed up. The parents are just concentrating on the first and last ones. (Hey, I'm a 3rd child out of 4. I'm allowed to be rude about middle children.)
I got as far as the word "wrod" before I realised anything was wrong. Which just proves the point. But then I'm a dreadful skim reader. One of my very bad habits.
I wonder if that's why middle children are so screwed up. The parents are just concentrating on the first and last ones. (Hey, I'm a 3rd child out of 4. I'm allowed to be rude about middle children.)
Monday, October 10, 2011
Adding infancy to injury
It's bad enough trying to get to grips with school years being called "grades" and how the numbers equate, when you arrive in the US. Then there's the whole issue of college years. For a long while, that was just a mystery to me, until I took the bull by the horns, googled the answer, and then spent a few minutes chanting "freshman, sophomore, junior, senior" to myself, until it became ingrained in my mind. Not ingrained in the same way that it's ingrained if you've lived through it yourself and it becomes second nature, but ingrained enough for day-to-day purposes.
What I hadn't realised was the extent to which High School grades use this terminology too. So it's no good that I know that High School is grades 9 to 12. Nobody talks about 9th grade. I now have to shelve that knowledge, and start talking about 14-yo as a freshman. "He's in his freshman year at High School" I say.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "wow, those expat mums are so impressive... We really have no idea the burdens they carry... Someone, give them an award".
At least you'll be comforted to know that I'm not alone in my struggles. I have a helpmeet in the form of 7-yo. She has recently been reading Dick King-Smith's "Sophie" books. When Sophie starts school, there is talk of her brothers being in the juniors. This confused 7-yo, so I explained. It's nothing to do with being college juniors or high school juniors. In England, Kindergarten, first and second grades are called "Infants" and third, fourth and fifth grades are called "Juniors". So far, so straightforward. (I was a bit hazy on the exact demarcation, but given that these things vary from LEA to LEA, and given that I'm not sure that terminology is still used in any case, I didn't worry too much.)
A few minutes later, 7-yo came back with further questions about "Insults and Juniors".
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What I hadn't realised was the extent to which High School grades use this terminology too. So it's no good that I know that High School is grades 9 to 12. Nobody talks about 9th grade. I now have to shelve that knowledge, and start talking about 14-yo as a freshman. "He's in his freshman year at High School" I say.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "wow, those expat mums are so impressive... We really have no idea the burdens they carry... Someone, give them an award".
At least you'll be comforted to know that I'm not alone in my struggles. I have a helpmeet in the form of 7-yo. She has recently been reading Dick King-Smith's "Sophie" books. When Sophie starts school, there is talk of her brothers being in the juniors. This confused 7-yo, so I explained. It's nothing to do with being college juniors or high school juniors. In England, Kindergarten, first and second grades are called "Infants" and third, fourth and fifth grades are called "Juniors". So far, so straightforward. (I was a bit hazy on the exact demarcation, but given that these things vary from LEA to LEA, and given that I'm not sure that terminology is still used in any case, I didn't worry too much.)
A few minutes later, 7-yo came back with further questions about "Insults and Juniors".
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Saturday, February 12, 2011
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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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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Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Double trouble
We've just been to a music program (concert) in which 13-yo was performing. One of the songs that the eighth grade choir sang was from the witches in Macbeth.
"Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
When we got home, 6-yo was asking me about it, wanting to know what the words were.
"Why were the witches singing about toilet trouble?" she wondered.
Talking of phrases which get you wondering, she and 9-yo often say "on accident" instead of "by accident". Husband and I have started correcting them. Up till now, it's been one of those family phrases that we fondly think is rather sweet, but the time comes when the need for correct parlance trumps parental doting. It's been a very hard habit to break. Husband and I assumed that they were saying "on accident" because of the parallel with "on purpose", or possibly because "it was an accident" could be construed as "it was on accident". Either way, it sounds odd to us, and we just thought it was wrong usage.
But... in the past couple of weeks, I've heard "on accident" three times - on one occasion it was a child, but on the next two, it was adults (albeit young things).
Is this becoming current usage? Is it an Americanism, or have you heard it over the other side of the Pond?
"Double, double, toil and trouble
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble."
When we got home, 6-yo was asking me about it, wanting to know what the words were.
"Why were the witches singing about toilet trouble?" she wondered.
Talking of phrases which get you wondering, she and 9-yo often say "on accident" instead of "by accident". Husband and I have started correcting them. Up till now, it's been one of those family phrases that we fondly think is rather sweet, but the time comes when the need for correct parlance trumps parental doting. It's been a very hard habit to break. Husband and I assumed that they were saying "on accident" because of the parallel with "on purpose", or possibly because "it was an accident" could be construed as "it was on accident". Either way, it sounds odd to us, and we just thought it was wrong usage.
But... in the past couple of weeks, I've heard "on accident" three times - on one occasion it was a child, but on the next two, it was adults (albeit young things).
Is this becoming current usage? Is it an Americanism, or have you heard it over the other side of the Pond?
Monday, September 27, 2010
Another shorthand phrase
Here's another of those shorthand phrases I was talking about in a recent post.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Would you have any idea what a friend meant if they said someone was 'carrying'? Although actually, they'd be more likely to say "I didn't know if he was carrying or not". That's because most often the person in question would be 'carrying concealed'. Only today, I saw a sign advertising instruction in how to 'carry concealed'.
I think I'm only going to let non-Americans guess this one, so if you're an American, or resident in America, and you want to leave a comment, you can just say "I know, I know". I'm guessing the rest of you have worked it out by now.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
A bunch or a lot?
I know you're all sitting there with bated breath on the whole aseptic drinks issue, but Dillons hasn't replied to my enquiry, so I'm moving on. This is the 21st century, Dillons, and things move quickly. The blogosphere waits for no man. Nor for aseptic drinks.
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
When I first moved to America, the phrase 'a bunch of' used to amuse me. They use it as we Brits use 'a lot of'. You'll hear "I've got a bunch of stuff to do", or "That's a whole bunch of shopping you're loading into your car" or "There were a bunch of people at the event". I'm de-sensitised to it now, but what used to amuse me was the visual image that last one produces. "A bunch of people" always made me see a cartoon picture of a giant hand holding a group of people as if a bouquet of flowers, ie their legs as the stems, and their heads splayed out like the blooms.
This makes me wonder. Does it sound very odd to Americans when English people talk about 'a lot of' things? If we mention 'a lot of people', do they visualise an auction house, with a group of disgruntled people sitting on the platform, waiting to see what they're worth as the auctioneer takes the bids?
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Sleuth in action
Bloggy Friends, never let it be said that I slack in the quest to bring you knowledge, wisdom, and intellectual satisfaction. Since none of you, no, no, not one, could enlighten us all on the aseptic drinks issue, this morning when I went to Dillons, I decided to take my enquiries to the very site of the aseptic drinks mystery itself.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
At the checkout, I engaged the friendly Jacob in my first level enquiry. He said that he, too, had often wondered what aseptic drinks were, and we pondered the issue together. Then he spotted the Assistant Store Manager, and called him over.
"I have a curious question for you", he said.
I'm including his exact words, because it's an opportunity to point out that in America, the word curious is used to mean inquisitive or enquiring, as in Curious George (the theme tune for which, "Upside Down", always makes me want to cry, I don't know why). In British English, the word curious means intriguing, unusual, peculiar. In American English, it's the subject of the action that's curious. In British English, it's the object. (I'm sorry, I have to tell you stuff like this. It's the way I'm made.)
Back to Dillons. Now, I have to say that we might have done better with the groceries manager. I think he would work with the detail of grocery vocabulary on a day to day basis, and would have had it down. The Assistant Store Manager, Barry, looked a little blank, and said
"It's the Gatorades and that kind of drink".
Bloggy Peeps, I thought of you, and I just knew you weren't going to be satisfied with that. I've been in America long enough that I'm a pretty assertive customer in shops these days (you'd be embarrassed to go shopping with me in England, I tell you), so I probed a little deeper.
"Yes, but what does it mean?"
I think the fundamental problem with the situation at this point was that Barry was with someone else, and no-one likes losing face in front of a colleague. So he hid behind his initial assertion, and repeated
"The Gatorades, those sports-type drinks. That's how the company defines it, anyway".
I assume he was invoking the authority of "the company" to bring the conversation to a close, so Jacob and I shared a companionable shrug, and I let the matter pass. But I know why he didn't want to talk about it any further. It was because he didn't know what aseptic drinks are. Relax, Barry. Nobody does.
They don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan for nothing. Actually, they don't call me Iota Sherlock Manhattan at all. Nonetheless, I have emailed Dillons customer services, because... we need to know. Aseptic drinks. I'm on the trail.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Words, words, words. There are so many of them that just don't translate quite exactly from British English to American English. Here are four that have troubled me this week.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
1) I still haven't discovered what 'aseptic drinks' are. There's an aisle in Dillons supermarket that has 'aseptic drinks' as its title (I've mentioned this before, but I never found out the answer). I just hope they're the ones I'm buying, because I sure as heck don't want to discover that I've been putting septic apple juice in my kids' packed lunches.
2) Packed lunches. Now, I know you call them 'sack lunches' over here, but I think maybe sometimes you call them 'packed lunches' too. It's just that every time I think I hear someone say 'packed lunch', I can't quite tell whether it was, in fact, 'sack lunch', and it doesn't feel quite right to say "hang on a minute... did you say 'packed lunch' there, a la British English, or was it just the usual American 'sack lunch' after all?" because, frankly, does it matter anyway?
3) My daughter's homework. The instructions asked us to listen to her read the 'decodable reader'. Hello? Hello, teachers? I think you've forgotten that we're parents here, not people deeply entrenched in the minutiae of education theory. What you're asking us to do, is to listen to her read the sentences about Pam and her hat, which she pats, and Sam and his cap, and the fat cat. I can see why you don't want to call it a book. Thin on plot, thin on characterisation. But 'decodable reader'? Puh-lease. Send her home with a reader that is NOT decodable one time, and then I'll be interested in whether your readers are codable or decodable.
4) Meccano. I thought you didn't have Meccano over here. But you do. You just call it something different. You call it 'Erector'. I discovered this in the toy shop, when the owner was showing me round on my first day. She pointed it out to me, and said
"Erector is popular. You'll find that dads often buy Erector, because..."
and I think she continued
"... they remember playing with it when they were kids",
but by that point in the sentence I had my mental hands over my mental ears and I was mentally singing la la la very loudly to myself.
Erector. Please take me home to a land where they call it Meccano.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Hair today, gone tomorrow
I’m excited about tomorrow.
Incidentally, do people say that in Britain? I have a vague recollection that when I first arrived here, I thought it was odd that people said they were excited about things. Grown-ups, I mean. Of course it’s ok for children to be excited, or we might put it in the passive and say something like “tomorrow is an exciting day”, but I have a feeling we don’t actually confess to such an unruly emotion ourselves. But I can’t really remember. I’ve been away too long.
Any old way, I AM excited about tomorrow. I’m having my hair done. ‘Done’, you note, not ‘cut’. There isn’t enough of it to cut anything off (so the title of this post is a little misleading). I do now have more than Obama, but we’re not talking Charlie’s Angels. ‘Styled’ might be a nicer word. Yes, I’m going to have my hair styled.
I was warned that it might grow back different to how it used to be, and it did. I’ve found that strangely upsetting. Symbolic, somehow, that life can return to normal, but it’s not the same normal as it was before. My hair wasn't exactly my finest feature how it was, all thin and wispy, but it was MINE and it was ME, and I’d spent a few decades getting to know how we worked together. Now I have the kind of hair that I used to envy in the 1980’s, when I used inordinate amounts of mousse in an attempt to give myself what was called ‘volume’, a word which translated into 'looking like you have a pineapple on your head'. Well, now I grow that volume all by myself. It takes a bit of getting used to.
When I last wrote about my hair, I was just past the very first sleek Obama stage, and I felt I had a doormat on my head, all coarse and wiry. Not nice. I urged it to keep growing, and it seemed to be getting a bit softer and bouncier with length. And then all of a sudden, I had this huge mop on top, and I felt like a walking bunch of carrots. I’d previously thought I could maybe go for a pixie Amelie gamine boy-cut sort of a look, but I can see there’s no point in that, unless I want to head back to the hairdresser every couple of weeks. The window of time between flat doormat and bouffant bunch of carrots is tiny. Is this what you wiry-haired people have to put up with? Blimey, I wish I’d known. I’d have cut you more slack. That’s a big life pressure you operate under. We wispy types have a more carefree existence. We can go for weeks with a look that is vaguely shaggy but still tolerable. Managing the mop is going to be a learning process, I can see.
I have no idea what will happen as it continues to grow. Will it flop over sideways at some point? Or will it just carry on growing onwards, upwards, and outwards, so that I look like an illustration warning children to keep away from dangerous electric equipment?
Then there’s the colour. Or lack of it. It’s not unpleasant in an unsettling way. I mean, people wouldn’t actually vomit in the street as I walk by. But, it is very black and grey, and severe. So I’m going to get some colour put in. But that’s a bit of a learning curve too. I’ve never had colour professionally done. I’m thinking this could be the beginning of an expensive journey. Don’t you have to have it redone every 6 weeks, if you don’t want your roots to show? Could I maybe have something a little more subtle done? High lights? Low lights? Back lights? Head lights? I’m planning on discussing all this with a nice cosmetologist who’s been recommended to me (my old one has moved to Connecticut, just when I need her). It's a dangerous strategy, to go along without clear views in my own mind of what I want, and I will quite possibly get talked into having all kinds of glamorous and expensive things done, but I don’t quite know how else to go about getting my first lesson in mop management.
I won’t miss the hats. I’ve enjoyed wearing them, but they’re getting a little hot, now that the temperatures here are in the 70s. And I never wore the wig, so I’ll take that back to the cancer charity (though I do have a very cute photo of 9-yo modeling it).
I never took a photo of me with no hair, or with baby-soft stubble just beginning to grow, or even with my Obama cropped doormat look. I felt so horrid, and I didn’t want it recorded for posterity. But now I wish I had. I don’t know why, really. I was still me, underneath it all, and perhaps I’d like to be able to look back and see that. On the subject of photos, the other day I had to get my passport out (oh yes, for the voting registration form), and the picture of me in it was all wisps and tendrils. I love that word. Tendrils. It made me sad, to see my old tendrils.
But enough with the gloomy looking back! I am now only a few hours away from a new look, and even though I guard my anonymity, I might have to find a clever way of showing you all. I’ll tell you one thing. It’s much nicer to be going under the scissors (for there will surely be some snipping, short though my hair may be) than under the knife. And I confess I AM excited, very excited. In fact, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get to sleep.
Incidentally, do people say that in Britain? I have a vague recollection that when I first arrived here, I thought it was odd that people said they were excited about things. Grown-ups, I mean. Of course it’s ok for children to be excited, or we might put it in the passive and say something like “tomorrow is an exciting day”, but I have a feeling we don’t actually confess to such an unruly emotion ourselves. But I can’t really remember. I’ve been away too long.
Any old way, I AM excited about tomorrow. I’m having my hair done. ‘Done’, you note, not ‘cut’. There isn’t enough of it to cut anything off (so the title of this post is a little misleading). I do now have more than Obama, but we’re not talking Charlie’s Angels. ‘Styled’ might be a nicer word. Yes, I’m going to have my hair styled.
I was warned that it might grow back different to how it used to be, and it did. I’ve found that strangely upsetting. Symbolic, somehow, that life can return to normal, but it’s not the same normal as it was before. My hair wasn't exactly my finest feature how it was, all thin and wispy, but it was MINE and it was ME, and I’d spent a few decades getting to know how we worked together. Now I have the kind of hair that I used to envy in the 1980’s, when I used inordinate amounts of mousse in an attempt to give myself what was called ‘volume’, a word which translated into 'looking like you have a pineapple on your head'. Well, now I grow that volume all by myself. It takes a bit of getting used to.
When I last wrote about my hair, I was just past the very first sleek Obama stage, and I felt I had a doormat on my head, all coarse and wiry. Not nice. I urged it to keep growing, and it seemed to be getting a bit softer and bouncier with length. And then all of a sudden, I had this huge mop on top, and I felt like a walking bunch of carrots. I’d previously thought I could maybe go for a pixie Amelie gamine boy-cut sort of a look, but I can see there’s no point in that, unless I want to head back to the hairdresser every couple of weeks. The window of time between flat doormat and bouffant bunch of carrots is tiny. Is this what you wiry-haired people have to put up with? Blimey, I wish I’d known. I’d have cut you more slack. That’s a big life pressure you operate under. We wispy types have a more carefree existence. We can go for weeks with a look that is vaguely shaggy but still tolerable. Managing the mop is going to be a learning process, I can see.
I have no idea what will happen as it continues to grow. Will it flop over sideways at some point? Or will it just carry on growing onwards, upwards, and outwards, so that I look like an illustration warning children to keep away from dangerous electric equipment?
Then there’s the colour. Or lack of it. It’s not unpleasant in an unsettling way. I mean, people wouldn’t actually vomit in the street as I walk by. But, it is very black and grey, and severe. So I’m going to get some colour put in. But that’s a bit of a learning curve too. I’ve never had colour professionally done. I’m thinking this could be the beginning of an expensive journey. Don’t you have to have it redone every 6 weeks, if you don’t want your roots to show? Could I maybe have something a little more subtle done? High lights? Low lights? Back lights? Head lights? I’m planning on discussing all this with a nice cosmetologist who’s been recommended to me (my old one has moved to Connecticut, just when I need her). It's a dangerous strategy, to go along without clear views in my own mind of what I want, and I will quite possibly get talked into having all kinds of glamorous and expensive things done, but I don’t quite know how else to go about getting my first lesson in mop management.
I won’t miss the hats. I’ve enjoyed wearing them, but they’re getting a little hot, now that the temperatures here are in the 70s. And I never wore the wig, so I’ll take that back to the cancer charity (though I do have a very cute photo of 9-yo modeling it).
I never took a photo of me with no hair, or with baby-soft stubble just beginning to grow, or even with my Obama cropped doormat look. I felt so horrid, and I didn’t want it recorded for posterity. But now I wish I had. I don’t know why, really. I was still me, underneath it all, and perhaps I’d like to be able to look back and see that. On the subject of photos, the other day I had to get my passport out (oh yes, for the voting registration form), and the picture of me in it was all wisps and tendrils. I love that word. Tendrils. It made me sad, to see my old tendrils.
But enough with the gloomy looking back! I am now only a few hours away from a new look, and even though I guard my anonymity, I might have to find a clever way of showing you all. I’ll tell you one thing. It’s much nicer to be going under the scissors (for there will surely be some snipping, short though my hair may be) than under the knife. And I confess I AM excited, very excited. In fact, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get to sleep.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
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.
.
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.
.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
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.
.
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.
.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Alexander McCall Smith
I'm following the novel Corduroy Mansions, by Alexander McCall Smith, which is serialised daily in The Telegraph. I love Alexander McCall Smith as a writer, so it is a daily treat. He has an eye for human nature which is both incisive and kind. I imagine he is a terribly nice man, who makes brilliantly witty conversation. If you ever have him round to dinner, please invite me too, and sit me next to him.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Monday, October 12, 2009
More words
Day 19 of 'The Daily Post'.
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
I've thought of another phrase in use in Scotland, differing from English usage, that I've come across here in the US to add to this collection.
If your grandfather is called William, and you call your son William, in England, you'd say you named your son after your grandfather. In Scotland and here, you'd say you named your son for your grandfather.
Similarly, if a friend is going to visit another mutual friend, in England I'd say "tell her I was asking after her". In Scotland and here, I'd say "tell her I was asking for her".
I find these things interesting. And since we're talking about visiting, it took me a while to get used to the way that word is used over here (though this is just an American usage, not one of those American-Scottish ones). You only visit a building. If you visit a person, you visit with them. And you can visit with them on the phone, which I found bizarre at first. So you might hear someone saying, as they get their mobile phone out "I'll visit with Jane and find a date when the three of us can all meet". You don't have to go to see someone intentionally for it to be a visit. In a crowded room, someone might come over and say to you "I'm glad you're here, because it'll be great to visit with you a little".
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Medical words
Day 14 of 'The Daily Post'.
Somewhere along the line, it was suggested that I might have my ovaries removed. The memory of why this was ever even floated anywhere near the cards is hazy, but I think it had to do with being part of a study. It isn't going to happen, but I rather warmed to the idea at the time. I, quite literally, liked the sound of it. Having your ovaries out is called an oopherectomy. I mean, who wouldn’t want one of those? Can’t you just hear yourself saying to all your friends and colleagues "I’m going to have an oopherectomy”. It’s up there with some new glasses, or a puppy for Christmas. And if they were anything like my friends, I’d expect them to say "ooooh, an oooopherectomy”, which I guess would be funny (at least the first time).
If you don’t fancy surgery, they can stop your ovaries working with a monthly injection. That’s called ovarian ablation. Another fine medical term. It sounds vaguely Roman Catholic to me. “Have you said your ovarian ablation yet?” “Oh yes, I did it on my way to confession – wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Though I have to say, it doesn’t do it for me quite like ‘oopherectomy’.
I liked the idea of an oopherectomy because I really didn’t like the word mastectomy. It sounds vaguely rude somehow. I never worked out whether to pronounce it m’stectomy, or mass-tectomy. The latter sounds a bit like mass exodus, which I suppose it is, on the breast tissue front. Anyway, I didn’t like the word.
Sadly, you don’t get to pick your medical procedures on the basis of their names. In any case, I always think the medics are having a bit of a laugh, actually, when it comes to naming surgical procedures. They like long medical-sounding words, to impress lay people, but really, they just take the name of the body part and add ‘-oscopy’ if they’re just looking at it, and add ‘-ectomy’ if they’re removing it. Easy peasy. For example, removing a lymph node is called a lymphedectomy. It’s true. Removing tonsils is called a tonsillectomy. Looking up a patient’s rear end is called an endoscopy. If a doctor looked at your finger and then amputated it, I expect he’d say you’d had a fingeroscopy and a fingerectomy.
This is a practice we housewives should adopt. It would make our jobs sound more impressive to lay people.
“Must hurry,” we could say to each other. “Got to do a dustectomy on the sitting room before the kids come home from school.”
“Yes, I should go too. My bathroom is in urgent need of a grimectomy, and I strongly suspect that after I’ve done a showeroscopy, I’ll be doing a mouldectomy too. But then I’m going to treat myself. I’m going to the salon for a splitendsectomy.”
“Good for you. No such luck for me. I had a note home from school, and I’m going to be doing nitectomies on all my kids, if the scalposcopy results come back positive.”
See. It’s very easy when you get the hang of it.
Somewhere along the line, it was suggested that I might have my ovaries removed. The memory of why this was ever even floated anywhere near the cards is hazy, but I think it had to do with being part of a study. It isn't going to happen, but I rather warmed to the idea at the time. I, quite literally, liked the sound of it. Having your ovaries out is called an oopherectomy. I mean, who wouldn’t want one of those? Can’t you just hear yourself saying to all your friends and colleagues "I’m going to have an oopherectomy”. It’s up there with some new glasses, or a puppy for Christmas. And if they were anything like my friends, I’d expect them to say "ooooh, an oooopherectomy”, which I guess would be funny (at least the first time).
If you don’t fancy surgery, they can stop your ovaries working with a monthly injection. That’s called ovarian ablation. Another fine medical term. It sounds vaguely Roman Catholic to me. “Have you said your ovarian ablation yet?” “Oh yes, I did it on my way to confession – wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Though I have to say, it doesn’t do it for me quite like ‘oopherectomy’.
I liked the idea of an oopherectomy because I really didn’t like the word mastectomy. It sounds vaguely rude somehow. I never worked out whether to pronounce it m’stectomy, or mass-tectomy. The latter sounds a bit like mass exodus, which I suppose it is, on the breast tissue front. Anyway, I didn’t like the word.
Sadly, you don’t get to pick your medical procedures on the basis of their names. In any case, I always think the medics are having a bit of a laugh, actually, when it comes to naming surgical procedures. They like long medical-sounding words, to impress lay people, but really, they just take the name of the body part and add ‘-oscopy’ if they’re just looking at it, and add ‘-ectomy’ if they’re removing it. Easy peasy. For example, removing a lymph node is called a lymphedectomy. It’s true. Removing tonsils is called a tonsillectomy. Looking up a patient’s rear end is called an endoscopy. If a doctor looked at your finger and then amputated it, I expect he’d say you’d had a fingeroscopy and a fingerectomy.
This is a practice we housewives should adopt. It would make our jobs sound more impressive to lay people.
“Must hurry,” we could say to each other. “Got to do a dustectomy on the sitting room before the kids come home from school.”
“Yes, I should go too. My bathroom is in urgent need of a grimectomy, and I strongly suspect that after I’ve done a showeroscopy, I’ll be doing a mouldectomy too. But then I’m going to treat myself. I’m going to the salon for a splitendsectomy.”
“Good for you. No such luck for me. I had a note home from school, and I’m going to be doing nitectomies on all my kids, if the scalposcopy results come back positive.”
See. It’s very easy when you get the hang of it.
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