Vita brevis, my breath is long

Why settle for three words when thirty will suffice?

I come from a wordy family, I married into a wordy family, I gave birth to … no not a wordy family – why have five children when one is such chatter box delight?

My father is the king of all words – which is why, no doubt, he taught me, in no uncertain terms, how to keep it short. I remember writing essays, in more tongues than my mother’s, teachers admiringly stating that they’d never read such convincing tosh, my employing limited vocabulary with little grasp of foreign grammar yet so concise, so stylish, they couldn’t help themselves but give me top marks. If I could frame those comments of theirs I would.

Don’t ask. To this day I have no idea what they were talking about. Probably best. As soon as you become self conscious, aware of your (in)abilities, it takes the innocence away. Compliment me on my eloquence and I will promptly fall into a stammer. Which is fine when you speak English in England: It’ll immediately mark you as a member of the inbred upper class

U

Going to the dogs

I just had startling thought. And I am not easily startled.

“Son of a bitch”. Why does no one ever insult a woman with: “Daughter of a bitch”?

I dare say a woman would just shrug her shoulders. Hit a man where it hurts at your peril: His mother’s honour.

It’s only 0655 hrs GMT. Please forgive me for keeping my reasoning simple.

U

Edit: Sweethearts, it’s now 0745. I have woken up. The reason no one says “Daughter of a bitch” is because there is a short cut. Just call her: “You Bitch”. Yes. Happened to me three years ago: “YOU BITCH, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT” This was dished out to me, just as I was trying to hold on to last remnants of sanity, the morning of moving house and cats being lost, my world spiralling down the plug hole, by the same American who, two months, earlier had told me that if she were in my situation she’d commit suicide. Yes, you, my readers, may flinch at her recommendation. Several people did. I didn’t. I thought it rather comforting (at least someone understood the drama, neither do I commit suicide). However, whilst being called a bitch is ok with me she also slapped me, twice, so hard that my glasses flew off. And she didn’t help me find them. The “bitch” was fine with me, the slaps were fine with me (people do lose their temper, not the end of the world, no hard feelings). But WATCH me try and find my glasses? And not help? Never shall you learn more about people than when the shit hits the fan. I found them, eventually.Tell the truth: I was so happy she didn’t stamp on them for good measure.

Not so simple

Some words need to roll off our tongues more often than they do: Like “nincompoop”.

I adore “nincompoop”. It sounds delicious. As does “Knickerbocker Glory”, a most disconcerting dessert I had when I first set foot on these isles. I only ordered it because I wanted to hear myself say it.

There is a faction of mankind which (most uncharitably) has taught me that about .. % of the world’s population is stupid.

Stupid. Nothing to do with intelligence. You may score on the Richter Scale of IQ as high as Einstein or Goethe and still qualify as stupid. Take it from me. It’s a fact. And no, no rats were harmed in the pursuit of my enlightenment.

There is a novel I keep re-reading every so often, maybe every three years – when I need to feel safe, and at home in the woods. I don’t know the politically correct term: The author’s chosen narrator ain’t a shining light how most people measure wattage. But shine he does. For me. And stupid he is not.

U

Note to self

I’ve got to watch it. It’s one thing to pride myself on never, yes really – never, using a spell checker. Why would I? Either I know how to spell or I don’t. And I can live with my mistakes and typos even if they are embarrassing at times. Am still traumatized from the time when the x on my keyboard gave out.  Currently the ‘i’ sticks. Maybe my subconscious telling me to be more ego something. Will come back to eggs in a minute.

So in an idle moment tonight I pondered on what using more than one language – on a daily basis – does to your mind. What is a catalysator to some is, naturally, a catalyst to another (English that is). Have you ever noticed that when addressing the very person you’d preferably not make a fool of yourself in front of is precisely the person you will? It’s a sideshoot of Sod’s law. Can also be observed when you quickly nip out to get, say, a pint of milk at seven in the morning only to bump into someone you’d hoped would never see you in curlers (and before any of you run away and unsubscribe because you do not wish to be associated with someone in curlers stop the hysteria now: I don’t use curlers, mainly because my hair is curly by nature.) Yes, so there I was congratulating Charles on his daughter’s imagination and, needless to say, giving away my lack of education by using the word “catalysator” instead of “catalyst”. Why this occurs to me ca 24 hrs after writing my comment I do not know. But then my brain seems to have a mind of its own.

Where were we? Eggs. I rarely quote other people. Being full of myself I am content to spout my own nonsense rather than quoting George Bernard Shaw or, worse, Oscar Wilde. However, believing in exceptions to rules and also easily amused I came across this, in The Little Book of Wrong Shui:

Eggsistentialism

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Use an egg box like everyone else and stop being such a poser.

Sartre eat your heart out.

U

Death row

 

Anyone who only thrives on fun, games and the world being the hilarious place you claim it to be please go away now and watch the news instead.

Earlier, as promised over at Con’s, I went out. I am, always have been, an ardent believer in the powers of “walking”. Walking clears you mind, helps you memorise facts, fiction and poetry. That wonderful time when you stride or slink or stop every two seconds to admire something on the way, or have your nose and eyes up in the sky till you find yourself falling into that little excuse of a river you had forgotten about? Take my word for it: It’s good. Even when it’s bad.

This afternoon was BAD in a bad way. Have realised something about myself which I will NOT “share” this minute with anyone until my son comes home. He knows good news when he sees them in my eyes. It’s so embarrassing I might have to take my findings to my grave. That’s why you should never trust autobiographies: They are heavily edited. And biographies are next to useless – even if I say so myself since I love reading them – because I know, for a fact, that should anyone ever attempt mine, they will know little of what really went on in my head. It’ll be pure fiction. Speculation. Psycho rubbish conjecture babble.

Veering off the original subject: Parks.

To cut to the chase: I managed to make a mega arse of myself. Don’t smirk. Think back to the last time you did  if you can remember it, and if you ever; the latter unlikely since most of you have managed to give me impression of being the upright wonderful human beings without a flaw to the every fibre you are (that does not include the guy who makes nuisance calls to Lady Con at 5 in the morning – maybe it’s Lord Con testing the waters. Worse ruses have been applied. Should you be interested I will re-tell a centuries old Italian novella in which a couple tested their being faithful to each other in a macabre and rather roundabout way. Let’s just say: Don’t. You’ll regret it; particularly if you are the man.)

Fresh air and movement – in the fancyful words of that detestable yet to be admired O’Hara woman as played by Vivien Leigh: Tomorrow is another day. Let’s hope it’s one during which I can mend my ways.

U

PS Have unearthed more material on punctuation. Magpie must have hung up his cloak since he is unexpectedly quiet on the subject. What I have found out is that in English “Doppelpunkt” (that’s Conrad) is ‘colon’. Which makes zero sense: It’s  points – two of them. Double. On top of each other. Like a high rise building. Anyway this will keep since, whilst the fork ran away with the spoon, an apostrophe is unlikely to leave this country and its language’s delightful intricacies. Mwah

Jenny

Leaving aside that my memory is phenomenal I called Nick’s partner Jenny.

“Jenny” is a mute point in this household. In the days when I still dropped off and collected Apple of my Eye at the school gate  I’d call all other mothers ‘Jenny’, unless I remembered their real name. Yet, as bets go it was safe. Apple of my Eye, being a natural at maths and statistics,  once remarked that my approach verged on the ridiculous, nay, the downright lazy. Always one to keep up with the latest lingo I replied: “Whatever”. I don’t often employ glee but couldn’t help it when getting my own back  next day when the mother of a new friend of my son  introduced herself to me as – well, you know what. I could have kissed her. I got miles of ammunition out of that one.

One of  my sisters has a different and real problem: Both her mother and her mother-in-law are called Ursula, both her sister (that’s me – in case you can’t follow the family tree) and her sister-in-law are called Ursula. So for her, in moments of absentmindedness and to be on the safe side, she calls everyone ‘Ursula’. (My mother tends to call me Charlotte which is the name of her sister and one of my nieces.) Naturally, given my streak of snobbery and arrogance, I am not best pleased how many people there are in the father/motherland called Ursula: One of the reasons I moved to England – not only do the British pronounce my name so very effectively and  differently (as do the French) but – being rare – it has a certain cachet. The biscuit was taken when one of my short term bosses kept calling me ‘Ingrid’. Which, incidentally, is one of my middle names. If any of you start addressing me as Ingrid I shall ignore you forthwith. Don’t even think about it. 

So glad I am not a Betty. I hate Betty. Which is of course just an abbreviation of a perfectly good name. Why are the British given to shorten even the shortest of names? Parents do not sweat over their darling’s name to find that Michael becomes Mike, David becomes Dave, Robert becomes Bob is your uncle,  and William miraculously turns into Bill. A friend of mine is a Bobby (Robin). That’s my beloved English for you. No wonder it rains when it pours.

Since I have reputation for cloaking myself in mystery I won’t reveal what one of my friends calls me so very affectionately; since no one else has thought of it it’s rather special to me. Father of my son agreed – not that he had a choice – to a name for our offspring with virtually no chance of anyone shortening it. And no, we did not christen him Max. Neither did we give him a middle name. Much to my son’s English grandfather’s grievance. An English officer and the middle classes stand on at least three initials.

How did I get onto this subject in the middle of the night? Jennies have a lot to answer for.

U

Hanging my head

It’s all the way downhill from here till I have to climb the next mountain.

Have just found an answer of mine to Magpie concerning plants which I wrote when I was temporarily forced off line - have now  no idea where it fits. Then having used the term ‘Arian’ several times – with a somewhat nagging feeling at the back of my mind  and nothing to do with the guilt of my forefathers – once more do I find that English spelling is a joke. Unless you know (in eight cases out of ten) how to spell a word you will be hard pressed to find it in your dictionary. English is fascinating that way. People say German is difficult. It’s complete nonsense: Everything is spelt/spelled how it’s PRONOUNCED,  everything is pronounced as it’s spelled. And as long as you remember that the verb that keeps the listener’s attention is, on the whole, put right at the end of a German sentence you should be able to order a beer: “Bitte ein Bier”.

Some languages employ gender which the English conveniently dispensed with right from the start; and the French naturally confuse the rest of Europe: A German moon is masculine yet when it shines on France it’s female. The sun however is mellow, yellow and feminine up North, but male south of the Swiss border. No wonder Sarkozy and Merckel can’t see eye to eye at the moment (reference Greece – and why are the Germans always expected to spend their hard earned Euros to bail out the rest of Europe?). I can’t even get a measly loan from my bank manager and we are talking pound Sterling  not Euros or Deutschmarks or billions. Yes, Deutschmarks – those were the times. Earned an absolute fortune when I still lived in Duesseldorf. I am not nationalistic but I did wipe a tear when the hardest currency of all was replaced by the Euro. I mainly wiped it because it took my German contingent forever to get used to it: I visit the mother/fatherland and years later everyone still translates currency into that which is history – and not only on the stock market. And then they wonder why I am not tempted back.

Where was I? Spelling. May Hitler forgive me: I have just realised that in a couple of recent posts I misspelt “Arian”. They are still blond and blue eyed (I myself sport dark brown eyes) but a ‘Y’ is rightfully theirs. Thus Aryans. As Magpie said: Soon the blonds will all be dyed anyway.

U

Miaou

I have to keep up an image. So I shall now bitch a bit (despite knowing that Jean does not approve though she does have unexpected potential to do so herself.)

Have just visited Ramana’s blog to read all the replies to headline referring to my wanting self.  Poor old Grannymar seems to have had a humoUr bypass in her response to gaelikaa (which, gaelikaa, does not reflect on her relationship with you; only on how much she dislikes me).

Despite your protestations to the contrary I had you down as sour before, Grannymar; now you’ve confirmed my notion: Like all sayings “can you lend me a fiver” evolved over time, got shortened to how we know it now. What’s it got to do with the Euro having been around “for a while” as you say, Grannymar? Following your logic, should we abolish nursery rhymes because Humpty Dumpties don’t fall off walls any longer (health and safety measures in place at all times); the last sighting of a dish running away with a spoon being circa 1901? And obviously John and Jill  who went up the hill will be six foot under by now.

And, Grannymar, cows do jump over the moon – if only you’d look up into the sky.

U

The L factor

Sweethearts, a new addition to my exclusive fan club comes in the shape of an L. Ron Hubbard – being the twin of one of my hardcore followers.

He appears to be speaking from beyond the grave (L. Ron Hubbard died in 1986). Info for the curious: The L. stands for Lafayette. Lovely sound, gorgeous name, also houses many art treasures [Lafayette Galleries, Boulevard Haussmann, Paris].

I don’t mind communicating with anyone, including the dead. Though by virtue of their being dead they don’t have much to say unless they wrote it down and published it before going to their grave. What is alarming, and in truth all I know about it comes via Tom Cruise, is L. Ron Hubbard’s devotion to that which shall remain unnamed – even on my blog where anything goes. It gives me the creeps. Why make a possibly good intial idea into yet another ”religion”? For God’s sake! Nothing is cast in stone. Not that Moses would agree with me: The poor guy had to carry the tablet and then shout it from the top of the mountain.

Dear Lafayette R. Hubbard: Watson to my Sherlock has told me all there is to know. Incidentally, I live a stone throw away from Arthur Canon Doyle’s grave. I hope the above being most satisfactory to you in its diversion away from apostrophes. You might also wish to look up the true meaning of the word ‘semantics’ which – according to one of the comments you left – you appear to think I concentrate on beyond all else. Hint: ”Semantics” have nothing to do with spelling, all to do with meaning.

As to being “pompous”, a compliment you so most charmingly returned to me: Why not? If you and I weren’t [pompous] then who would? Pomposity does not wish to go the way of dinosaurs.

Mwah

Cutting a dash

I know it’s cruel; but then the person this is addressed to claims not to be a shrinking violet. She protests so much about NOT liking pink that I have nothing but Barbie dolls popping up in  the vision of my brain’s eye.

Anu, you might wish to add to your list of what “annoys” you when other people mix up the spelling of certain words, reference your  No 4 of  “Just so that you know me better” (24 Jan 10):  “Quiet and quite“. To save you time: You are very quiet in your 9, 10, 24; and in 22 you are quiet twice.  Quite.

You don’t need to join the apostrophe society but apostrophes (few and far between in your writing) are there for a reason. Among many other examples in your prose I could cite: It’s is not its. Not to take care of the difference is plain lazy and a discourtesy to your readers. Since you want to learn French (pink or no pink) here is a hint: The French are particular. No sloppiness there if you want to make the grade.

U