Dot Wordsworth

My husband gave me a copy of Plutarch’s Moralia for our wedding anniversary, the romantic old thing. It is in the translation of Philemon Holland, made in 1603 and republished in 1657. At the back is ‘An Explanation of certain obscure words… in favour of the unlearned Reader’. That’s me. Some entries in the glossary make sense. To Pinguifie, we are told, means ‘To make fat’, and Gymnosophists were ‘Philosophers of India who went naked and led beside a more austere and precise life.’ But some entries seem to define simpler terms by harder ones, as with Satyrs: ‘Woodwoses or monsters. Creatures with tails, yet resembling Men and Women, and in part Goats.’ I like the idea of woodwoses being more familiar than satyrs.

I could scarcely believe the feebleness of my husband’s little joke in declaring he would take less water with his whisky ‘to help with the drought’. I think he must have been watching repeats of Mock the Week while I am out. But the new cliché is that we are in drought. Sometimes this is preceded by officially. It’s there in the newspapers, although once at least the Guardian said we are ‘officially in a state of drought’. I can’t remember in drought being used as a set phrase before. It sounds a little technical and in some way like a diagnosis. The obvious parallel as a diagnosis is in shock, or perhaps in denial, but the model, as a technical classification, must be in recession.

Francis Maude was judged to have let the side down by uttering the words ‘kitchen supper’. It was almost as bad, apparently, as having said ‘nursery tea’ — not the language of the people. Yet people do eat supper, and may eat it in the kitchen, not always on their laps in front of the television. If Mr Maude had a proper dinner, it was supposed, he’d have it in the dining-room. In any case, names of meals are notorious social identifiers. Originally, supper was the last of the day’s meals: breakfast, dinner and supper. Hence the Last Supper, not the Last Dinner. Mr Maude would hardly call the meal in the middle of the day dinner.

Theresa May, the Home Secretary, wants to stop us preloading — filling up on cheap booze before going to a nightclub. The first time I heard her use the word, I thought she was saying freeloading. But that is a different problem. Perhaps soon we will hear Mrs May talking of getting bladdered or rat-arsed, or whatever the word is on the street. Preloading belongs to that fast-breeding family of words beginning with pre-. Until recently, preload was a term from engineering, physiology or computing. Ball-bearings might be pre-loaded during the manufacture of a machine so that they ran more smoothly in operation under stress.

On 22 August 1662, the day before the new queen arrived at Whitehall in a barge so surrounded by craft that ‘we could see no water’, Samuel Pepys walked over to Mr Creede’s lodging and had ‘a little banquet’ (meaning fruit and sweets and wine) ‘and I had liked to have begged a parrett for my wife, but he hath put me in a way to get a better from Steventon at Portsmouth’. By ‘I had liked to have begged’ Pepys meant ‘I would have liked to have begged’ or ‘I felt inclined to beg’. The Authorised Version, 51 years earlier, expressed Romans 1:28 as: ‘They did not like to retaine God in their knowledge’.

The back-page notebook in the Times Literary Supplement the other week was pondering whether the word obnixely had ever really been used. It means ‘earnestly, strenuously’, but I can see that there is not much point using it if no one knows what it means. The prefix ob- generates a goodly store of seldom used words: obacerate (‘to stop the mouth’); obcaecate (‘blind, uncomprehending’); obganiate (‘to be tediously repetitious’); obstupely (‘dully’) and the splendid obeliscolychny (‘lighthouse’).

Who is to say what marriage should mean? Not dictionaries, for they record what words do mean, not what they should. Lexicographers are like lepidopterists, catching and describing species, not pig-farmers, breeding and improving them. Last week Lynne Featherstone, the equalities minister asked: ‘Who owns marriage?’ She answered: ‘It is owned by the people,’ and then declared: ‘If a couple love each other and want to commit to a life together, they should have the option of a civil marriage, irrespective of whether they are gay or straight.’ I suppose she meant ‘irrespective of whether they are men or women’.

Since my husband had retuned the television, importing channels that no person free from troubling neurosis could possibly want to watch, such as one devoted to the sale of steam-cleaning machines, I stumbled over Emeli Sandé singing her song ‘Next to Me’, which was No. 2 in the BBC singles charts last week, and may be No. 1 by now. It is poetic in a traditional sense, employing metre, rhyme and romantic images. ‘I wanna hold your hand by the sea;/ Wanna feel you next to me./ I wanna see the sunrise in your eyes;/ Wanna keep you by my side.’ The orthographic convention wanna could be replaced by want to, but does suggest the words’ realisation in performance. The rhyme eyes and side falls within the scope permissible in rap.

English teachers are often remembered for two reasons. I don’t know which is more damaging. The first is for having made a pupil think she was writing well. The second is for having inculcated a few arbitrary rules, such as not to split an infinitive or to end a sentence with a preposition, thus enabling a pupil in future years to say: ‘I was always taught that...’ Someone wrote to me this week saying: ‘I was always taught that get is a word to be avoided. There is always a word you can use instead.’ Perhaps so, just as one could avoid the word lambent or entasis. The frequent use of lambent or entasis would certainly mar prose more than that of get.

Dickens’s coinages ‘Dickens. Makes a change,’ said my husband, flopping a TLS on to the chair next to his whisky-drinking chair and turning to the free Telegraph television guide. The sarcasm was stingless, as we’re only in the second month of Dickens year, with plenty to enjoy. I saw Dickens credited the other day with the invention of 265 new words. If you look at the Oxford English Dictionary it becomes clear that he did no such thing. In 258 cases, Dickens is the source of the earliest quotation illustrating the use of a word. This is often mistaken as evidence that an author invented it.

The fatuousness of remarks on Radio 3, about which Charles Moore complains, is an established aim on Radio 4. Last Sunday, before The Archers, I was invited to ‘Have another cuppa’. The implicit intention was to sound like someone who had just dropped in to the kitchen. But a stranger dropping in to the kitchen and talking as if he were an old friend would be alarming. Indeed, we might suspect him of being a psychopath. It is all to do with register. Register in language is not mentioned in old-fashioned grammars. It entails differences in vocabulary, pronunciation and even tonality, according to circumstances. (Charles Moore mentioned the funny noise that broadcasters make when they speak as though smiling, as they are encouraged to do.

On Start the Week, Shami Chakrabarti of Liberty spoke of an arms race in Home Office policy. She wasn’t talking about tasers or automatic weapons for policemen. Her phrase was metaphorical. Now I find that this metaphor is habitual to her. She used it when giving evidence in 2008 to the committee considering the Counter-Terrorism Bill. It quite annoyed Tony McNulty, who had not then resigned as a minister nor yet apologised to Parliament about his expenses claims. In discussing detention without trial, he told her: ‘You made a very negative characterisation of the shift from 14 to 28 days. You described it as an arms race.’ She replied: ‘In an arms race there is plenty of substance that is achieved by the escalation… .

You (my husband) say farther and I say further. Not only that but we are both sure we’re right. How can this be? To the benighted farther brigade it is obvious. Farther is the comparative of far, so, at least in the literal sense of distance, it is the logical form. Such instincts to tidy up language are natural. Indeed a previous comparative was farrer, very logically. This held sway from the 12th to the 17th century, after which it began to be associated with the sort of speech heard on The Archers. (Originally the comparative of far was fyrr, but that was before the Conquest.) The forms farther, further, which came to supplant farrer, were modelled on the noun further, in the meaning of ‘furtherance’. So much for history.

The other day I walked past Patisserie Valerie on the corner of Broadwick Street and Marshall Street, in a shop that used to be a potter’s. ‘This isn’t really Patisserie Valerie,’ I thought to myself. What I had always taken to be a proper name (of a place in Old Compton Street, after its move from Frith Street, where it had been bombed in the war) had now become a common noun (a chain). Luke Johnson, who runs Risk Capital Partners Ltd, the owners of the Patisserie Valerie chain, is not entirely to blame for this, since a few branches had opened before he took it over in 2006. And to tell the truth, I didn’t much mind Valerie becoming a chain, since I’d stopped going to the real one, in favour of Maison Bertaux or sometimes Amato.

Hurrying for the Underground, I thought I saw a poster for a film by Madonna called Wee. It seemed a strange title even for her, and indeed the film turns out to be called W./E., the initials of Wallis Simpson and Edward VIII. Nevertheless, wee has suddenly become a frequent word in public utterances. On that quite interesting programme on BBC Four about medieval kings’ illuminated manuscripts, one sequence showed calf hides being prepared for making into vellum. The parchmenter, Mr Paul Wright, mentioned that the urine of abbots would once have been used, as their diet produced rich urine. The presenter, Dr Janina Ramirez, who holds degrees from Oxford and elsewhere, referred to it as ‘abbot’s wee’. As a professional populariser perhaps she was right.

Many middle-class parents would (it is said) prefer to hear their little children say fuck than toilet. A similar system of class shibboleths governs the choice of children’s name. The most popular in 2011, it turns out, was Harry. It is unexceptionable, being of ancient royal lineage (‘Cry God for Harry…’), and, like Jack, uniting rich and poor. What is a tragic burden for the middle classes is to find a rarer name of classy pedigree suddenly become the name shouted in supermarkets at toddlers in tantrums: ‘Jason! Shut that row.’ I can’t find anyone called Jason in all 60 volumes of the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, and it must have been most unusual in 1928 when the future Bishop of Derby was born to Jason and Janet Dawes.

The word of the year is across. Earlier this month someone on the radio spoke of hospital experiences ‘across the patient journey’. The meaning was ‘throughout’. It is universality that across is now felt to express. A widely favoured, seldom understood figure of speech is across the piece. Proof of the obscurity of its application, even for those who use it, is that they often make it across the piste, as if it came from skiing. Across is everywhere. In the Independent, Alexander Lebedev wrote about promoting ‘fair journalism across the globe’. One might think it would be round the globe, or perhaps around the globe. There is a difference between round and around.

A national hobby during the screening of Downton Abbey was to spot supposed anachronisms in behaviour and language. It drove poor Lord Fellowes into a frenzy. When last week I read Death Comes to Pemberley, P.D. James’s whodunnit set in the world of Pride and Prejudice, I soon found myself tempted to play the Downton game. It’s not fair, of course. Lady James did not set out to write the book in the language of Jane Austen. At the same time, nor did she wish to produce any such sentences as: ‘“Whatever,” shrugged Darcy.’ In this she succeeded. Yet some items of speech come pretty close, sticking out as anachronistic sore thumbs. Thus we are told that Mary Bennet ‘was a compulsive reader’.

‘Because I said so’ is the most common phrase mothers find themselves using to their children that their own mothers used to them, according to a deeply unscientific survey undertaken by a baby-outfitters. Other such phrases included: ‘Take your coat off or you won’t feel the benefit’; ‘Wait and see’; and ‘Were you born in a barn?’ (which the survey renders as: ‘You weren’t born in a barn’ — not the version familiar to me). I was delighted by the old-fashioned ‘Who is “she”, the cat’s mother?’ It benefits from logical obscurity. The child, after all, knows that there is such a pronoun as she. But the grammar is not criticised, rather the register of speech.

I feel a jarring sensation to hear business as usual employed in a strange sense. It is frequently used at the moment to suggest that bankers and other wicked people have gone back to their greedy ways. The dog has returned to his vomit. Although I am not old enough to remember the war, I appreciate something of the associations of the phrase in that period. Looking through some old photographs from the Getty collection from the war years, I can see how business as usual became a powerful, often moving, declaration of defiance, when posted up as a notice or chalked on the front of a bombed shop. ‘Business as Usual, In Spite of Hitler’, read a sign on a shop in Watford, as early as October 1939. Before the war it was less of a slogan, more a conventional phrase.