Dot Wordsworth

After Padraig Harrington gave an interview to the Today programme the other day, Evan Davis, the presenter, commented that he had never heard the phrase ‘amn’t I’ before. Perhaps he has not been to Ireland. The Oxford English Dictionary does not seem to comment on the Irish character of the abbreviation. This interrogative form is cited only in illustration of another word entirely, in a quotation from the 1950s. Usefully, this makes the Irish link clear: ‘Haven’t I the art of a real Irish story-teller? Amn’t I the latter-day heir o’ the great bards and story-tellers?’ If one thinks of it, the English English form ‘aren’t I’ is just as odd.

Although I do not smoke, I find my sympathies drawn more and more to persecuted smokers. Outside Victoria station an aggressive notice says: ‘It is against the law to smoke in these premises including under this canopy.’ Never mind that the canopy, really a porte-cochère, is open to the elements, with a broken roof-pane that lets rain pelt the taxi queue, nor that the welcome Sir Nigel Gresley regularly enters the train shed smoking powerfully. What grates is to be bossed about in bad grammar. Including is a participial adjective. In neither of the ways that it is used can it qualify an adverbial phrase such as ‘under this canopy’. It would be correct to say ‘under canopies, including this one’.

Dot Wordsworth on the word 'sticky'. Longfellow, in the middle of writing ‘Hiawatha’, complained to his diary one hot day of ‘Chamber-maids chattering about — children crying — and everything sticky except postage stamps, which having stuck all together like a swarm of bees, refuse further duty.’ It’s funny how Longfellow wrote better informally than when he tried. Anyway, stickiness has, my daughter tells me, become a virtue in business circles. It is a desirable quality for websites, from which so many strive to squeeze money. Stickiness glues users to your site and makes them return to it, like flies to syrup.

It was either Kung Fu Panda or Prince Caspian, so I took my nephew and niece to the latter. Aunts are only flesh and blood. A trailer for the Panda film featured him exclaiming ‘Awesome!’ Strangely enough this word is used in C.S. Lewis’s novel, about Aslan’s How, though not in the film. Awesome does not appear in the Bible (although awe does, four times, always in the phrase ‘stand in awe’), but Lewis meant it in the sense that the Authorised Version expressed by dreadful, as when Jacob declared: ‘How dreadful is this place! This is none other but the house of God.’ I could see that changes in connotation would be a problem for the screenwriters.

During my rather dry investigation last week of apostrophes on the London Underground map, I found something far more interesting. It is the anagram Underground map invented two years ago by the pseudonymous Barry Heck (after the great Underground mapper Harry Beck). Transport for London, as they call themselves at the moment, asserted, no doubt correctly, their own copyright in the map, and clamped down on reproduction of the anagram version. But the anagram names of the stations are not their copyright and may be discussed without locking the door. The anagrams were apparently done with an online anagram generator. To make them with a paper and pencil would be more satisfying, as crossword-solvers appreciate.

How funny to find the apostrophe described as a ‘notoriously difficult punctuation mark’ in last week’s Letters. It’s simple. So, the simple reason that St Thomas’s Hospital should be spelt with the final s is that it is pronounced by everybody as tom-ass-is, and the spelling must reflect that. I agree that Earl’s Court is, as the Underground philosopher Anne Wotana Kaye suggests (Letters, 14 June), a deeper problem, for historical reasons. The station bears an apostrophe, whereas Barons Court does not. (Perhaps Dublin should build an Underground so that it could have a station called Finnegans Wake, like Joyce’s novel, but unlike the fully apostrophed name of the song.

Does it matter when we lose battles as language changes? In Oxford the other day, I saw another piece of evidence that in the High Street has changed to on the High Street. A newsagent’s near Teddy Hall has for some time been called Honey’s of the High. It is now usually called Honey’s on the High. I don’t much like the change, but it seems triumphant. A change of a different kind that triumphed two or three decades ago was in the pronunciation of sonorous. It is now stressed on the first syllable, and that indeed is how I say it. Formerly, it was stressed on the second syllable. I am not conscious of ever hearing it so pronounced now.

Dot Wordswoth on pens and puns ‘Why,’ asked my husband, looking up from his book, ‘is Joseph Gillott a very bad man?’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘Because,’ he replied, as if I had acknowledged defeat, ‘he wishes to accustom the public to steel pens and then tries to persuade them that they do write.’ By the way that he was slapping his thigh and spilling his glass of whisky, I could see that he thought this was a joke. There was, it appeared, a double play on words: steel and steal, and do write and do right. Who Joseph Gillott was, perhaps I should have known, but didn’t. He was, it turns out, the perfecter of the steel pen nib.

Queens' College, Cambridge or Queens' College, Cambridge I was interested by a note on the website of Queens’ College, Cambridge, because the use of the apostrophe in English is governed by such simple rules that it is hard to see how there can be much dispute about it. The college says that everyone is told to spell it Queens’ College because it was founded by two Queens of England: Margaret of Anjou, the wife of Henry VI, in 1448, and Elizabeth Woodville, the wife Edward IV, in 1465. But the college adds quite correctly that an apostrophe to indicate the possessive is ‘of no great antiquity’. (It is much more recent than the foundation of the college.

Dot Wordsworth gives it her best shot I hardly wish to interpose my body between Anthony Horowitz and Simon Hoggart, even though the former invoked me. He declared (Letters, 10 May) that he is puzzled by Mr Hoggart’s remark in his television column that ‘in 1945 nobody ever said, “I’ll give it my best shot”,’ as someone was made to in Foyle’s War. This is not just a matter of finding the two words best and shot next to each other. In Treasure Island, the answer to the question ‘Who’s the best shot?’ is Squire Trelawney. No, the shot we’re talking about is neither the discharge from a firearm nor the person who makes it.

‘What’s so super about these superdelegates?’ asked my husband from the other room, while I was washing the Jersey Royals. I do not intend trying to explain the American political system here. These delegates are not necessarily super at all. I wonder what connections superdelegates suggests in the American mind. If it suggests superman, the reference is likely to be the cartoon hero who first made his appearance in 1938, ‘champion of the oppressed, the physical marvel who had sworn to devote his existence to helping those in need’. That hardly sounds like a description of the Democrat politicians who may have to devote their existence to deciding whether Hillary Clinton should be their presidential candidate.

The events of 1 May seem a long time ago, and so does their sequel, a so-called fightback by the Labour party. A press briefing last Sunday declared in a fine froth of mixed metaphors: ‘Gordon Brown will seek to kick-start Labour’s fightback today after its mauling at the polls.’ Fightback is a handy word for politicians because it suggests more than it says. It bears an ambiguous meaning, either ‘retaliation’ (which would sound too spiteful for a party done down by the electorate) or ‘recovery’ (which is the end hoped for, but certainly not guaranteed). The word has been around for the past 50 years or so, and is still considered colloquial in register.

‘Twenty-five years ago,’ writes Mr Peter Gasson from Aylesbury, ‘policies were implemented; services were provided; changes were made or brought about; promises were fulfilled. Now they are uniformly delivered. I suppose the word has become so popular because it sounds emphatic.’ I know just what you mean, Mr Gasson, and so must we all, which suggests that politicians and managers who use the word deliver should think again. To give the cliché its full deficit of originality it is coupled with solutions: business solutions, catering solutions, heating solutions, bovine health solutions. All will be delivered, at a price. By delivered they do not mean brought to your door in a cardboard box, like organic vegetables. They mean ‘done’.

The last two words of my column last week were ‘in future’. The new annoying equivalent to this phrase is going forward. The last two words of my column last week were ‘in future’. The new annoying equivalent to this phrase is going forward. It is much used by management-brains and media-types. I told my husband that I was looking out for examples in the press, and he came back with a handful of cuttings about football matches. The footballing usage, as I patiently explained to him as he turned to the whisky on the sideboard, is spatial, not temporal. There is another variant in meaning, which seems to signify the same as going on. Joan Bakewell twice used the phrase in this sense in the same article in the Independent.

‘I wonder,’ writes Kim Parsons from Helston, or nearby, ‘if you have seen the new government-generated No Smoking signs which declare: “It is against the law to smoke in these premises.” Since when has on in this context become in?’’ I have seen the signs, because there is one at the church door in my parish, even though the incense continues to rise within. I suppose a church is ‘premises’, but the classic context of premises comes in the quotation from a licensing Act written above many an inn door, permitting the named proprietor ‘to retail beer, wine, spirits, and tobacco to be consumed on the premises’.

Dot Wordsworth on why locust may sometimes not mean 'locust'. When the Bible says that John the Baptist ate locusts and wild honey, what does it mean by locusts? The question may be a chestnut, but I’ve found some jolly new material in seeking the answer. Jews are forbidden to eat winged insects that walk around, but locusts are excepted. Leviticus (xi 22) says: ‘Even these of them ye may eat; the locust after his kind, and the bald locust after his kind, and the beetle after his kind, and the grasshopper after his kind.’ Beetle seems a bad translation. So why think that locust does not mean ‘locust’?

Dot Wordsworth follows a hissing S with a nasal N. A musician, Alexander Faris, writes with a list of words beginning with hissing S and nasal N: snarl, snatch, sneak, sneer, sneeze, snicker, snigger, snip, snob, snore, snort, snot, snub, snuff and snout, all of them negative in connotation. He makes the point that they seem to share an onomatopoeic element. I can see that more than half of them have to do with the nose, an organ we treat with some caution. Although it is regarded as unclean (when it is someone else’s and gets too close to us), at the same time, we make enjoyable use of our own, nosing our wine or scenting the breeze. Your sniff bad; my sniff good.

I’ve found the origin of the football cliché ‘over the moon’. Or I thought I’d found it. In a speech written in 1857 for W.E. Gladstone by Lord Lyttelton, his brother-in-law, in a family dialect known as Glynnese, comes the following sentence: ‘The Dolly was over the moon with a magpie sandwich which she took like pork.’ This may be translated as: ‘The dowager was in high spirits with an underdone sandwich, which she took without any feeling of gratitude.’ I’ve always been in two minds about Glynnese. Sometimes it makes me laugh, with its presupposition of a houseful of larks and children. Its great exponents were Catherine, Mrs Gladstone, and her sister Mary, Lady Lyttelton.

A medical friend of my husband’s came to me in some distress, having stumbled upon an advertisement in the New Yorker mentioning a ‘documentary débuting November 6’. He was amused by the careful use of an acute accent, puzzled by the word’s pronunciation and shocked by the brutal transformation of a French noun into an English verb, of sorts. Annoyingly for those who find that this usage grates, the first example garnered by the Oxford English Dictionary is from as long ago as 1830, from Fraser’s Magazine: ‘He debuted at Naples, about five years ago, and has since performed in the principal theatres of Italy.

My husband went to a medical conference, paid for by a pharmaceutical company, in Padua, where the university has been teaching medicine since the 14th century. So I went too and popped over to Venice, taking with me Mrs Ruskin. I mean Effie, who, poor thing, ran away from John Ruskin in 1854 after six years of marriage when he had still not steeled himself to do the deed. Nothing wrong with her. She had eight children after she married Millais. Her letters Effie in Venice, edited by Mary Lutyens, were, I found, just the companion to a few days in that irresistible city. Effie refers to a visit to the Borromean Islands, the property of the rich old family to which the sympathetic saint Charles Borromeo belonged.