Words

          I read the other day that one should never tease or criticise somebody because they mispronounce a word because it means that they have read it. To this day, words such as ‘seraglio’ are a problem to me so I rarely use them in everyday speech. Of course, this means that my everyday interactions with everyday people are severely constricted. When lined up to pay for one’s groceries one cannot chat with the customer behind one about seraglios because one is unable to pronounce the word.

“What are you talking about Davidson?” I hear the cry, “Who on Earth knows about or uses that word anyway?”

     Of course, Dear Reader, you are right, some words are a pretension. Why use a hammer when a teaspoon will do? The English language is beautiful in its simplicity.

        It was a winter’s Saturday morning in the English county of Lincolnshire in the mid-1980s. I was driving from the city of Lincoln to the town of Grimsby on the coast.  Lincoln is a beautiful old Roman town made more majestic by the 1000 year old cathedral which rests atop the hill in the centre of the city. I say ‘the hill’ ‘cos Lincolnshire is a flat county full of arable farmland. Lincoln arose as a place of rest and recreation for off duty Roman soldiers. The cathedral was a later arrival; it sits opposite a younger castle, a short walk away from a Roman arch; its eaves provide shelter for the statue of the poet, Tennyson, one of the counties more famous sons. Its majesty is unsurpassed. Grimsby, however, was named appropriately. It is a windswept town huddled for futile shelter from the regular windy batterings off the sea. I have never met tourists on the streets of Lincoln who have talked enthusiastically about their Lincolnshire sojourn and said, “Of course you can’t come to this county without visiting Grimsby.” Yes you can and yes you should. I digress.

    On that cold, bleak winter’s day Lincoln Rugby Club was off to Grimsby to play their local rivals. I was driving and had three of my team-mates in the car. The three of us were trying not to listen to Richard who would let out the occasional startled yelp when he discovered that Joe Blow, a local farmer, had planted his seeds too early. Or worse, that Jim Braithwaite had given up on crops and replaced them with cattle. Richard’s family had farmed in the county for generations. His greatest pleasure was being driven to his rugby game and seeing what all his neighbours were doing with their land. He was, and hopefully still is, an extremely nice fellow but as a passenger in one’s car he would drone happily about local farmers to the extent that the driver would drift off into dangerous somnolence. His saving grace was that he would suddenly startle one into instant wakefulness with scandalised yelping.

“Aaargh,” Davidson swerves dangerously, “Turnips, turnips’, Sad shaking of the head, “Huuuge mistake, why would George Whitley grow turnips? A mistake, I tell you, Pete, a terrible mistake.” This statement of a farming Armageddon would encourage us all back to a better attention.

So we continued on our rural journey passing through villages and hamlets and very few towns. There came a pleasant lull in the conversation. Richard stared determinedly out of the window. The other two in the back were relieved at the silence and I gave my full attention to the road. We rounded a corner and there before us was a sign announcing the name of the hamlet through which we must pass. It was the quaint little settlement of “Swallow”. As we approached the sign there was an audible gulp from all four of us.  We all did as the instruction asked. We swallowed.  As a testament to the aridity of British humour, nobody laughed or smiled at our mutual joke but we carried on as though nothing had happened.  Richard suddenly found a farmer’s crop that he needed to comment upon. The presence behind me continued their silence.

As I mentioned before I have just been back to the UK on a first trip since Covid. Irene and I had the best of holidays. I guess I learned again what I already knew. The power of language and words are the greatest force for good and evil in the World. In the hands of a demagogue they lead to atrocities and lies; in the hands of the great unwashed they can make a bad situation good and a good situation bad. Sometimes it is not what is said but the way that it is said.

Kings Cross Station in London is a busy hub. Alison and Irene had made sure that I had arrived there on time. I was to leave them in London and catch a train to stay with a friend in Edinburgh. There were hordes of people on the concourse staring up at the illuminated departure timetable waiting for the platform to be announced before heading through the automated ticket gates. I was standing there waiting patiently when I spotted a railway official standing in front of us.  I got talking to him and discovered that he was the Station Master. I was impressed. I had expected such a person to be ensconced in some capacious office, directing from above, lording over his minions, yet here he was pacing up and down amongst the passengers, helping, reassuring and guiding. I asked him and he told me that he had been in the job for seven years. I complimented him on his youth for such a position and praised him for being there with the ‘hoi polloi”. He shrugged modestly but I could see that I had pleased him. Suddenly the platform number appeared above and there was an almighty rush to the gates. I was surprised at the colossal number but it did not take me long to realise that I would never find a seat on this train and would probably be standing for the five hours it would take for my journey. I need not have worried.  Alas, There was no hope even of that. No room for Wee Pete.  So, I thought, “What do I do now?”

Back to the concourse and my new friend. He suggested that I go to the ticket office and book a seat on the 15.00 hours direct train to Edinburgh. This I did and was greeted by a typical British shaking of the head before I had even completed my request. Back to the Station Master looking forlorn. He told me that I looked fit and healthy and if I was quick I would be at the front when the platform was announced. He must have noticed the despair on my face so he looked around to make sure nobody was listening, took me to one side and whispered. “Platform 4, Go now.” I shook him by the hand and was through and sat on an empty train some 15 minutes before the official announcement. Dear Reader, I was peacocking my plumage with pride at my luck and good fortune but more at the fact that I had simply taken the time to talk with a stranger and form a fleeting relationship which had benefitted me. Words matter.

Poor Rufus!

Rufus was a twenty year old university student who was returning to Edinburgh and found himself sat next to me. He picked up a rugby game on his phone and I apologised for watching over his elbow. Thus a conversation ensued. Up came the cryptic crossword I was struggling with and he made the mistake of taking an interest. I was impressed with one so young taking time with me, so old. I could not resist tapping him on the shoulder vigorously when I answered a particularly difficult clue. Poor fellow was asleep.

Our daughter, Alison, is a computer whizz. It is a large part of her job. Yet she could not order the theatre tickets that we wanted when I had returned to London on my way home. She went to work and I took the tube to Leicester Square resolved to obtain tickets to watch, “The Best of Enemies” that night. I turned up at the theatre at 10.00 a.m. to find a young fellow sat in the foyer who could not help me but if I went to another theatre for noon then I would succeed. I was there 20 minutes before it opened and had not been there for 5 minutes before a young man was trying the door. I explained that it was not yet open and he explained that he knew because he worked there. I said, “My name is Pete”. He is Simon. I wandered off and then back so I was the first customer in. Simon was sat behind a screen in close proximity to two women. He said, “Hi Peter” like we had known each other for years. One of the women looked up and said that her first boyfriend’s name was Peter and they all laughed. That is one of those coincidences which is useful for a bit of spurious banter but really tantamount to discovering that you and that complete stranger celebrate Christmas on the same day. Any rate we had our tickets but after I left I contacted Alison and suggested that we go to a play on the next night as well. Within 20 minutes I was in front of Simon again. He and his two colleagues simultaneously said, “Hi Peter” and we proceeded from there.

         These two little tales of my recent UK visit are really something of nothing, Dear Reader. Except that none of these things would have been possible during Covid. The power of words, conversation, human contact are hugely important are they not? Nobody is an island as the saying goes. We are all cogs in the wheel of life; small parts of a greater whole. And if these wee vignettes in my long and happy life are a remembrance and are stiflingly boring to those of you who are kind enough to read my blogs then, Dear Reader, please forgive my seasonal self-indulgence.

       Seasons greetings to you all. May your lum always reek. Pete

P.S. Came across two new words in a couple of newspaper articles this week. “Tintinnabulation” and “nidor” are unlikely to come up during a casual conversation at the laundromat but, at least, they demonstrate that I am not the only one to love all that the wonderful English language has to offer.