Dot Wordsworth

'Phwuh, this is a bit scatological,' said my husband, looking up from last week's column, his brow glistening with recycled Black Bush. From a man who is seldom ten yards from a sigmoidoscope, that was pretty rich. But in an interesting development on the great lasagne chase, Dr Peter Emery writes from hot Oman to say his Arabic dictionary gives lawzinaj as a loan-word from the Persian lawzina, 'sweetmeats resembling qatayif combined with oil of almond'. Qatayif, Dr Emery explains helpfully, are small triangular doughnuts fried in melted butter and served with honey accompanied by qamar ad-deen (an apricot-based drink) during the evenings of Ramadan in Cairo and other cities of the Arab world. They sound delicious, but not much like lasagne.

It is by no means clear to me which words are acceptable in what social circumstances. I mean words from bloody southward. It was, 20 years ago, the case that in the grown-up surroundings of The Spectator it was all right to use for good reason strong language that the BBC could not abide. Now, on the stroke of 9 p.m., television makes fuck the most common of lexical choices. My husband doesn't give a damn, but is shocked on my behalf. It doesn't have to be 9 p.m. Shortly after 10 the other morning a rather sincere young person on Woman's Hour was advocating our women's standing up to verbal harassment by telling off the perpetrators. 'It isn't just "Show us your tits",' said the young person.

I was looking for an obscure work by Richarde Weste (fl.

Those trained train staff have come up with a new one. Until now it has been 'Peterborough is the next station stop with this train.' That is a Babylonish dialect, to be sure. But today it was: 'We shall shortly be arriving into Peterborough.' Arriving into? As it happens, Bishop Cuthbert Tunstall in a sermon for Palm Sunday 1539 used the phrase 'into what howse or place so ever ye shall arrive', but I can scarcely suppose that this homiletic obiter dictum influenced the choice of preposition adopted by the conductor or train captain of the 16.32 (delayed). If it comes to that, arrive used to be a transitive verb for landing a ship or its passengers. In a narrative of Becket from about 1300 we read, if we care to, of how St Thomas 'at Sandwyche aryved was'.

Britain invented lasagne, according to a front-page report in the Daily Telegraph. The claim came from organisers of a mediaeval banquet at Berkeley Castle. They appealed to 'the world's oldest recipe book', The Forme of Cury, compiled under Richard II in 1390. It seems the Berkeley banqueteers meant that not just the food but the word itself were English, for the dish concerned was called loseyns. At this point I smelled a rat. To me loseyns looked like a medieval form of lozenge, and so the OED confirmed it to be. Under the word lozen, 'a thin cake of pastry', it actually quotes The Forme of Cury. Part of the recipe in the Telegraph ran: 'Take flour of paynedemayns and make erof past with water.' That sounds like pasta, sure enough, but what is that funny word erof?

On one of those discussion programmes, not about books but about buying books, Mariella Frostrup has just said, ‘We shall be discussing that momentarily.’ If only that had been true. Now what I really want to write about is a grammatical solecism I have been convicted of. In the politest possible way, Andrew Wilton, a reader from email land, points out that in the following sentence the grammar is all wrong for the sense: ‘Veronica is behaving like one of those South American birds in the zoo that hasn’t got a big enough run....’ Mr Wilton acknowledges that such constructions have been used by reputable writers for a century or more but seem catachrestic. Is there any justification for them in theory?

I was just looking up malarkey when my husband called out in the tones of a man who has found a glass eye in his porridge. 'Looks like yours,' he said, fishing a bit of paper out of the first volume of Phineas Finn as if with tongs. He was not wrong, it had my writing on it, and I wish I had found the note before, when Sir Ned Sherrin wrote about morning meaning 'afternoon'. For here in chapter four Trollope writes, 'He called at Portman Square at about half-past two on the Sunday morning. Yes, – Lady Laura was in the drawing-room. The hall-porter admitted as much, but evidently seemed to think that he had been disturbed from his dinner before his time.

Mr John Ross, a reader from Derbyshire, was struck by the strange juxtaposition of two phrases of different flavours in the second chapter of Scott's Kenilworth. On the same page the host says 'I wot not' and another character, Mr Goldthread the mercer, says in answer to a question, 'That I have, old boy.' Mr Russ associates old boy with public schools, not with the England of Elizabeth I. Scott is a far from reliable authority on the historic use of language. He was writing fiction, after all, and he sprinkled the page with god wots and forsooths on a suggestive rather than an accurate principle. His magpie antiquarianism sometimes tempted him into error, though never in such a spectacular way as Browning with his celebrated misapprehension of the meaning of twat as 'a nun's headdress'.

A kind-hearted reader wondered whether Chinaman might not be a derogatory term. I used it the other week. If you believe the Encarta dictionary, it is not just derogatory – it is offensive. But then, the (mainly Zulu) Encarta (as I like to think of it, in memory of the BBC World Service's invariable phrase each time it mentions the homophonic South African party Inkatha) opines that Montezuma's revenge is offensive, to the shade of Montezuma for all I know. The thing itself can certainly offend. It is hard to know why Chinaman should be offensive. There seems to be a general reluctance to call foreigners by anything too concrete. Thus Spaniard sounds a bit rude, and so does Jew. 'A Spanish person' or 'a Jewish person' is much more refined.

Veronica has been playing Hail to the Thief, I won't say non-stop, but as obsessively as one of those South American birds in the zoo that hasn't got a big enough run and keeps pecking at its reflection in its water-can. She is revising simultaneously. I'd have thought she was too old for this sort of thing, but apparently Radiohead yokes the generations in a sort of spirit of the Blitz. Far be it from me to criticise the music of Thom Yorke and his chums, but what of the lyrics? Remember when Bob Dylan was compared to Keats. Absurd; Keats is a feeble lyricist – fancy using been as a rhyme-word in the first quatrain of 'On first looking into Chapman's Homer'.

'If you dial 1471,' writes Dr Roger James, a reader, naturally, 'you are likely to be told by a recorded female voice that "The caller withheld their number." This is an example of the difficulties that our language gets into because it lacks a word that means "his" or "her". Years ago, she would have said, "The caller withheld his number," but political correctness has taboo'd that way out. What should the recorded operator say?' What, indeed? I think I prefer 'The caller withheld their number' to 'The number you have dialled knows you are waiting', which is not true literally or figuratively. The loss of he as a sexually neutral pronoun is certainly a nuisance, more often awkward than the loss of man in the sense 'anthropos' or 'homo'.

'Of course Gladstone was 20 times cleverer than you,' said my husband. 'Much more, most likely. Why should anyone think different?' '"Differently", darling. Anyway, they don't mind my saying "cleverer than you". It's "cleverer than me" they don't like.' My husband is easily defeated and went back to his Famous Grouse and his Herwig's Art of Curing Sympathetically. Some chance. Yes, I had written 'cleverer than me' (5 April), not of conscious purpose, but because the construction must have entered my mental syntax replication machinery. It all hinges on whether than is a conjunction or a preposition. If it can be the latter, I'm in the clear. It did not take me long to find an eminent ally in Dr Robert Burchfield, the editor of New Fowler's Modern English Usage.

My husband has just been to a professional conference in La Rioja. Why do doctors feel they confer better in places renowned for wine? I was allowed along for the ride, although it meant that even when we had a delicious dinner (those bream with gold-painted noses and bits of animals that would make Digby Anderson's heart glow) it was to the accompaniment of conversation about ventilation and macabre things done with butterflies. There was a poor Chinaman at a neighbouring table with never a grain of rice to be had unsteeped in milk and cinnamon, and I began to experience the sense of the alien that he must have felt when we ventured into the nearby Basque country. Wales I can cope with; one soon learns that tacsi means 'taxi'.

Sir Ned Sherrin is beautifully vindicated by Mrs Beeton. He had wondered (Mind your language, 15 March) whether 'morning performances' of plays mightn't, like other morning social activities of the mid-19th century, have been undertaken in the afternoon. His particular interest was the matinée performances staged by Squire Bancroft at the Prince of Wales's Theatre, which he took over in 1865. This theatre, later named the Scala, was in Tottenham Street, near Tottenham Court Road, London, and was in the later 1860s the sharp end of new, realistic drama by playwrights such as Tom Robertson.

I was trying the other day to find out who first came up with the term moral equivalence, and so I turned to Twentieth Century Words, edited by John Ayto (Oxford). He doesn't list it, though he has Moral Rearmament (1938) and Moral Majority (1979). Dr Ayto arranges his words by decade, and gives the first year in which each word is recorded. In most cases examples might still turn up from slightly earlier years. One of the mistakes people make in using dictionaries is not to realise that when the Oxford English Dictionary gives as its earliest citation a word used by Milton, say, it is not suggesting that he invented the word. Even the intelligent Geoffrey Madan, I think, made this mistake in his Notebooks. Anyway I soon found myself lost in the 1940s.

Mr Peter Bonnett from Downham Market, Norfolk, appeals to me as 'The Spectator's custodian of language'. God forbid! I have troubles enough! Mr Bonnett is worried about the prevalent confusion between deprecate and depreciate, and I had just written down my deprecatory exclamations when what should I come across in the fat OED but a quotation from 1631, from proceedings in the Court of Star Chamber: 'My Lord Keeper answered with a deprecation: God forbid that Norfolke should be divided in custome from all England.' Well! Koestler, thou shouldst be living at this hour! I have now used up my allowance of exclamation marks for the year. Deprecate, barring obsolete usages, means either 'pray against evil' (to ward it off) or 'to express earnest disapproval of'.

A curious piece of information came the other day from my friend Patrick Williams, the chef and flute-player, accompanying a very English set of photographs of the people of Canterbury observing preparations for the Enthronement of Dr Rowan Williams as Archbishop. Mr Williams told me that he'd seen a programme dated 1862 for an 'Enthronization' in the cathedral. Well, I thought, perhaps that was for the American market, although transatlantic tourists must have been rare then. The event must have been the enthronement of Archbishop Longley. The ceremony had been revived by his predecessor Archbishop Sumner in 1848. Before that the last archbishop enthroned in person was Wake in 1716.

'What do you mean, "gapering"?' asked my husband during a pause from shouting at the television. 'Is it like capering?' He wasn't following, because he had been busy excoriating a television reporter for invoking global warming on the local news. (Local news means uninteresting things that have happened near you. It is even worse in London, since a lot of real news happens there, so the criterion is to save the chaff for the local bulletin. I only have it on while waiting for the weather forecast.) Before picking up my husband's dropped stitch, I'd like to apologise to Dr Christopher Heneghan, the anaesthetist barrister, for spelling his name wrong. Secondly I'd like to show off a card from Sir John Keegan, which is now pasted in my autograph album.

Veronica tells me she is 'against the war'. At least she hasn't joined up for the Baath party. While she was making a placard or two on the kitchen table, I have been puzzling over a letter from an anaesthetist. But before that, may I mention a couple more figures of speech that the war has thrown up? One comes out of an incident near ad-Diwaniyah where an American marine was killed and another wounded by fire from Iraqi irregulars. A marine officer, Lieutenant-Colonel B.P. McCoy, described the engagement as 'blue-collar warfare'. At first hearing, this was grotesque, but I suppose that the metaphor means 'workaday', which is accurate enough. Worse is a new humorous acronym: KI/CAS, standing for Killbox Interdiction/Close Air Support.

I've just been reading with pleasure a facsimile of a little book called Orbis Sensualium Pictus, or Visible World, by Johannes Amos Comenius, as published in London in 1672. Dear old Comenius (1592-1670), a Bohemian by origin, sought a universal sharing of knowledge, hoping that 'scarecrows may be taken away out of wisdoms Gardens'. His picture book, first published in 1658, with its captions in Latin and native tongues, would, he thought, 'entice witty Children to it, that they may not conceit a torment to be in the School, but dainty-fare'. Poor Comenius had the misfortune to get caught up in the Swedish-Polish war, suffering the destruction of his books and manuscripts in 1656.