I'm a Stranger Here Myself (32 page)

Have you ever noticed that some words sound perfect for the things they describe and other words don’t sound right at all?

I had occasion to reflect on this the other morning when I passed through the kitchen and my wife asked me if I cared to join her in a bowl of muesli.

“Oh, but I don’t think we could both get in,” I replied, quick as anything. The joke, alas, was wasted on her, but it did set me to thinking what a curious term
muesli
is. It is not a word we use in America. When we sweep up after we have been doing woodworking and put it in a bag with mixed nuts and a little birdseed, and pretend it’s a healthful breakfast product, we call it
granola,
which frankly I think is a much superior word. To my mind,
granola
sounds precisely like a crunchy cereal involving bits of grain and chaff, whereas
muesli
doesn’t sound like anything at all, except perhaps a salve you would put on a cold sore (or possibly the cold sore itself).

Anyhow, it got me to thinking how some words do their job very well and others don’t seem quite up to the task.

Globule,
for instance, is a nearly perfect word. It just sounds right. Nobody has to tell you what
globule
means for you to know that it is not something that you want down the front of your shirt.
Scrapie
is another excellent word. Scrapie clearly couldn’t be anything but a disease. (Though on reflection it might be a Scottish cut, as in “He fell down and got a wee scrapie on his knee.”)
Snooze,
likewise, is also first rate, as are
chortle, clank, gasp, dribble,
and
bloat
. To hear these words is to know what they describe.

Then there is a whole group of words that are not particularly descriptive but are for some reason just very agreeable to say.
Galoshes. Pandemonium. Transubstantiation. Rudimentary. Palpitation. Kiosk. Quisling.
These are all good words.

For a truly bad word, on the other hand, I would suggest
balaclava
—a term that we in America have wisely and instinctively abjured. We use the term
ski mask,
which may not be poetic but does at least have the virtue of clarity. A balaclava, on the other hand, could be almost anything—an obscure root vegetable, a type of geological formation peculiar to the Tibetan steppe, the basic unit of currency in Albania, the sound of a large load of rocks coming off the back of a dump truck, almost anything at all. It certainly doesn’t sound like something you would want to put on your head. No, the word you want for a kind of pull-down hat is
haggis
.

Haggis,
you see, is not a good word for a food—too sporty, too rakish—but it would be an ideal word for a piece of knitted headwear. (“Oh, Tom, you look so handsome in your new haggis.”)
Haggis
simply doesn’t sound like a food (but then, as anyone who has eaten haggis will know, it doesn’t taste like a food either).

Sometimes you wonder what they were thinking when they named a thing. Take the pineapple. If ever there was an object that was less like pine and less like an apple, and in nearly every respect, this surely must be it. Or grapefruit. I don’t know about you, but if someone handed me an unfamiliar fruit that was yellow, sour, and the size of a cannonball, I don’t believe I would say, “Well, it’s rather like a grape, isn’t it?”

I don’t know why it is, but most foods, with the notable exceptions of mush and hash, are misnamed. Ketchup, for instance, is a splendid word, but it is quite wasted on a tomato sauce product.
Ketchup
is actually the sound of a small, halfstifled sneeze of the sort maiden aunts make after covering their mouths with a scented hankie. (For the sort of robust sneezes people like you and I make the word is, of course,
cashew
.)

A
pretzel,
meanwhile, is not a dry snack food but one of those stretcher devices into which injured people are strapped when they are being airlifted to safety from mountaintops.
Semolina
is not a pudding at all but a slow, stately dance much practiced in Spanish-speaking countries and widely used to bore tourists. (The same dance in Portugal is called a
fajita
.)
Marzipan
is, obviously, nothing you would want to put in your mouth but a kind of drip tray for collecting fat off meat roasting on a spit.

Other bad words are
anorak, spatula, tofu, pantaloons, serviette, sweetbreads,
and
settee
. Several of these, you will notice, are British. This is not because the British are bad at making up words, I hasten to add, but more a reflection of the fact that nobody is perfect. On the whole, the British are pretty good at coining terms. One of the things that impressed me a great deal when I first went to Britain was the number of excellent words they have for which we have no real equivalent in America—
gormless, skive, gobsmacked, chivvy, snog, berk, pillock, plonker, naff, and prat
(interesting how many of these are used for insults). The British are to be commended for every one of these.

On the other hand, they are forever abandoning very good words, which is a trifle careless to say the very least. They had a nearly perfect word in
shilling,
for example, and just let it go.
Half crown
was also very good,
guinea
better still, and
groat
practically unbeatable, and yet they just allowed them to slip away.

So here is my idea. I think we should take some of these good old words and use them to replace words that aren’t good, especially those words that have multiple meanings and could cause embarrassment and confusion. As even a moment’s reflection will confirm, too many words in English have too many meanings. Consider the sentence “I wonder if I might see your chest.” Uttered in an antique shop this would mean one thing; on a dance floor quite another. So I think we should use the old obsolescent words to get rid of some of these confusing multiple senses. This would bring a small measure of orderliness to the language and get some fine old words back into circulation.

Anyway, that’s my suggestion for the week. And now that I’ve got that off my groat, I think I
will
go and join my wife in that bowl of muesli.

“Good lord, Buss, what’s all the commotion?”

“Oh, hello, Smythe. Not like you to be up at this hour. Smoke?”

“Thank you, don’t mind if I do. So what’s the kerfuffle? I saw the captain as I came by and he looked in a dreadful stew.”

“It appears we’re sinking, old boy.”

“Never!”

“Do you recall that iceberg we saw at dinner?”

“The one that was as big as a twenty-story building?”

“That’s the one. Well, it seems we struck the deuced thing.”

“Rotten luck.”

“Rather.”

“I suppose that explains why my cabin door was underneath the bed when I woke up. I thought it a bit odd. I say, is this a Monte Cristo?”

“H. Upmann, actually. I have a man in Gerard Street who gets them specially.”

“Awfully nice.”

“Yes.... Pity, really.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, I just ordered a dozen boxes at two guineas each. Still, I suppose young Bertie will be glad to get his hands on them.”

“So you don’t think we’re going to make it?”

“Doesn’t look good. Mrs. Buss asked Croaker, the quarterdeck steward, when he brought her nightcap and he said we had less than two hours. How’s Mrs. Smythe, by the way? Is her stomach better?”

“Couldn’t say. She’s drowned, you see.”

“Oh, rotten luck.”

“Went out the starboard porthole when we started to list. It was her shout that woke me, as a matter of fact. Shame she’s missed all the excitement. She always enjoyed a good sinking.”

“Mrs. Buss is just the same.”

“She didn’t go over as well, did she?”

“Oh, no. She’s gone to see the purser. Wanted to cable Fortnum and Mason’s and cancel the order for the garden fête. Not much point now, you see.”

“Quite. Still, all in all it’s not been a bad voyage, wouldn’t you say?”

“Couldn’t agree more. The food’s been top-notch. Young Kate was particularly taken with the place settings. She thought the dinner tables a picture and the grapes thrilling. She stayed from soup to nuts. You haven’t seen her, by any chance?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“It’s just that she rushed off in a rather odd way. Said there was something she had to do with young Lord D’Arcy before we went under. something to do with flags, I gather.”

“Flags? How odd.”

“Well, she made some reference to needing a jolly roger, if I heard her right. I can’t pretend I understand half the things she goes on about. And in any case I was somewhat distracted. Mrs. Buss had just spilled her nightcap down her peignoir—in consequence of the impact, you see—and was in a terrible temper because Croaker wouldn’t bring her another. He told her to get it herself.”

“What extraordinary insolence.”

“I suppose he was a bit out of sorts because he won’t be getting his tips now, will he? Can’t say I blame him really.”

“Still.”

“I reported him, of course. One has to remember one’s station, even in a crisis, or we should be in a terrible mess, don’t you agree? The quartermaster assured me he won’t get another posting on this ship.”

“I should think not.”

“Bit of a technicality, I suppose, but at least it’s been noted in the book.”

“It’s been a funny old night, when you think about it. I mean to say, wife drowns, ship sinks, and there was no Montrachet ’07 at dinner. I had to settle for a very middling ’05.”

“You think that’s disappointing? Have a look at these.”

“Sorry, old boy, I can’t see in this light. What are they?”

“Return tickets.”

“Oh, that is bad luck.”

“Outside port cabin on the Promenade Deck.”

“Oh, very bad luck.... I say, what’s that noise?”

“That will be the steerage passengers drowning, I expect.”

“No, it sounded like a band.”

“I believe you’re right. Yes, you are quite right. A bit mournful, don’t you think? I shouldn’t want to try to dance to that.”

“ ‘Nearer My God to Thee,’ isn’t it? They might have chosen something a bit more festive for our last night at sea.”

“Still, I think I’ll wander down and see if they’ve put out supper yet. Coming?”

“No, I think I’ll turn in with a brandy. It’s going to be a short night as it is. How long have we got, do you suppose?”

“About forty minutes, I’d say.”

“Oh, dear. Perhaps I’ll skip the brandy then. I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again?”

“Not in this life, old sport.”

“Oh, I say, that’s very good. I must remember that. Well, good night then.”

“Good night.”

“By the by, just a thought. The captain didn’t say anything about getting into lifeboats, did he?”

“Not that I recall. Shall I wake you if he makes an announcement?”

“That would be very good of you, if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”

“Well, good night then. Give my regards to Mrs. Buss and young Kate.”

“With the greatest pleasure. I’m sorry about Mrs. Smythe.”

“Well, worse things happen at sea, as they say. I expect she’ll bob up somewhere. She was awfully buoyant. Well, good night.”

“Good night, old sport. Sleep well.”

We recently bought a flat in London. Well, to be absolutely precise, we haven’t actually bought it. We’ve just sort of borrowed it for the next sixty-three years. It’s leasehold, you see, so, despite having paid a king’s ransom, and promising to keep it in good order and wipe around the sink and so on, in February 2061 it automatically reverts to an owner whose identity I do not know and who may not even yet be born. (But here’s a little secret. I don’t intend to do any clearing up after Christmas 2060, so won’t
he
be in for a surprise?)

Now I have owned property in Britain before so most of the process of purchasing wasn’t too much of a shock. All those things peculiar to the British system, like stamp duty and solicitors’ fees and surveyors’ reports that cost an arm and a leg and say nothing (“A visual inspection was made of the heating system, which appeared to be in reasonable working order, though a program of regular maintenance is recommended, and for this I’m charging you £400, you chump”), were much as expected.

No, the surprise came when my wife and I flew to London with the demented idea that we would try to get it more or less furnished in a week. I’m not sure if I had forgotten or if I never knew, but it came as a surprise to me to discover that the furniture sections of London department stores don’t actually sell anything. They just put out attractive items to look at.

To ensure that no one buys anything, they generally leave these sections unmanned. I believe there are whole floors at John Lewis of Oxford Street that have not seen a member of staff since just before the war. Here, and elsewhere, you can wander around for hours, waving credit cards and calling out “Hello? Hello?” in perfect confidence that no one will ever come to serve you.

If by some miracle you find an employee who is willing to attend you, it would be wrong to assume that this means you will be able to conclude a transaction. We made this discovery on the second morning when we went to Peter Jones, another large and well-known department store, to buy a breakfast table for the kitchen. There were about eight types to choose from and, after a careful look, we made a selection.

“I’m afraid that one’s been discontinued,” said the sales assistant.

“Then why, pray, is it on display?”

“We’re waiting for the new models to come in and we didn’t want to leave a blank space on the floor.”

But of course.

My wife and I conferred and went for our second choice. It wasn’t a particularly special table but it had a card on it saying that it was available and in stock, which meant at least we could take it away with us.

“We’ll take this one,” I said.

“Certainly, sir. We can have that to you by Monday of next week.”

“Pardon me?”

“Or the Friday of the following week at the very latest.”

“But the card says it’s in stock,” I sputtered.

He favored us with one of those bland, condescending smiles that you only ever see on people in the British retail trade who are dealing with foreigners. “Indeed, it is—in our warehouse in Swindon.”

“So we can’t have it now?”

“No, but you can certainly have it by the second Wednesday of next month.”

“But you just said Monday of next week or the following Friday at the very latest, or something,” I said, confused.

“Precisely, sir—the third Tuesday of the month after next. That’s assuming it’s in stock. Shall I check for you?”

I nodded dumbly.

He made a call and came back to us looking very happy. “Yes, there’s one in stock. Would you like it?”

“Yes, please.”

He went off to place the order, then came back looking even happier. “I’m afraid it’s just gone,” he said. “I can put in a special order for you. It will take about thirty days.”

“Thirty days to get a kitchen table?”

“Oh no, sir. Thirty days to process the order. The table itself will take somewhat longer.”

“How long?”

He surveyed the order book thoughtfully. “Well, the table comes from Sweden. If the manufacturer has it in stock and can get it to the dock at Uppsala on the monthly shipment and it doesn’t get held up in customs and the paperwork goes through at our warehouse in Middlesbrough, then I can almost certainly guarantee you a provisional delivery date by next Michaelmas. Or the one after at the very latest.”

It was like this for almost everything. The longest delivery date we were quoted was fourteen weeks when we ordered a sofa.

“Fourteen weeks?” I cried, aghast. Now excuse my rough colonial edges, but fourteen weeks is a period of time an American shopper cannot conceive of. To an American shopper there are just three spans of time: now, tomorrow at the very latest, and we’ll look elsewhere. The idea of waiting fourteen weeks for anything, other than perhaps a baby, is unknown.

Anyway, fourteen weeks came and went and not only was there no sofa but no word on when there might be a sofa. Meanwhile, we had returned to America, so we began a series of transatlantic phone calls, invariably resulting in our being transferred between departments or put on indefinite hold.

When eventually we would get through to a real person, we would have to acquaint them with the astounding idea that we proposed to give them some money in return for a product. This always seemed to throw them into confusion.

“And what kind of fridge was it you ordered?” a voice on the other end would ask tentatively.

“No, it’s a sofa. An ordinary three-seater sofa.”

“It sounds like you want the Orders Processing Division— or possibly Accounts Receivable,” the voice would say. “Let me ask you this. When you placed your order, did they give you a yellow slip with a green tag or a green slip with a yellow tag?”

With a sigh, I would put the phone down and go off on a protracted hunt through drawers and boxes for the order slip.

“It’s actually a light blue slip with a sort of maroon tag,” I would announce when I returned.

“Ah,” the voice would say in a portentous tone. “I’m afraid we don’t deal with light blue and maroons. That’s High Wycombe, that is.”

“What’s High Wycombe?”

“A town in Buckinghamshire.”

“No, I mean what’s High Wycombe got to do with it?”

“That’s where they process light blue and maroons. We only deal with green and yellows here. But you know, sir, if you’d rather have a refrigerator we can guarantee delivery in time for the millennium celebrations.”

And so it has gone. At the time of writing, we have been waiting almost eighteen weeks for our sofa. I don’t have any idea when we might hope to see it. Still, to look on the bright side, if it isn’t here in a little over six decades, it will be somebody else’s problem.