Some flowers nice enough to like

There was a time when the word ‘like’ was used, on the one hand, either as a conjunction meaning ‘similar, resembling’ or ‘in a suitable state for’  ripe with many possibilities of misinterpretation (as in ‘I feel like a black coffee’), or on the other, as a verb, meaning ‘to find agreeable, congenial or satisfactory’.

It’s always been a rather dull word, similarly inexpressive as, say, ‘nice’, a word that you would use only if you couldn’t be bothered to think of one of the many more colourful and interesting synonyms.

Perhaps its very dullness, its insipid half heartedness, is what has given it the recent supercharging in its usage.

Now there is the special kind of liking made possible by Facebook, a little flag that indicates, yes, it was interesting enough to read, but it’s not really inspired me enough to write anything original in return.  Where a ‘friend’ (a whole other minefield of new meaning lies therein) has posted something demanding mutual outrage, what a cacophony of desire for a ‘don’t like’ button is unleashed.  Disagreement requires words, agreement can now be entirely half hearted and passive.

‘Thank you for ‘liking’ the blog post on Facebook’

‘You’re welcome.  I really did actually like it; you know, like in the real world ‘liking’.’

Ooff.

And then there’s the way that some people litter their sentences with the word almost at random.  I’ve even caught the virus, and have heard myself say it.  It’s got to stop. Even ‘er’ and ‘um’ are preferable.

I’ve grown used to hearing people in the street

‘And I’m like, duh, and he’s like, whatever.’  They’re usually young, with shiny faces, a carrier bag from Primark in one hand and their mobile phone in the other.

Last week however I had to step to the side of the pavement to allow two people, who had been having a conversation too close to my ear, to walk past me, specifically so I could look at them, so far from the stereotype did they sound.

‘So I like go, the warranties and indemnities just won’t wash.’

‘Sounds like the right way to deal with him, innit?’

And he’s like but this is like a negotiation. There’s gotta be compromise. And I go, so like, I’m listening.’

Two young women in black suits, carrying a couple of lever arch files each, grey handbags adorned with too many buckles over their shoulders, tottering on high patent leather heels, heads down, so deep in their own world they don’t notice me making notes.

I want  both to thank them for making me challenge my prejudices and to shout after them ‘Talk proper, innit!’

I’m continue to be fascinated by the search terms people have used which have led them to this blog.  The regular searches for ‘houses with yellow front doors’ is particularly intriguing; not that they arrive here, because I wrote a post on the subject, but that there are so many people looking for such a thing online.  Why?

Sometimes a smile is all you need

Recently there has been a peak in searches for ‘sense of humour’, which of itself is amusing to me, as the only post I’ve written on the subject is about the frequent failure of mine when faced with mainstream comedy.

It’s the example I always use if someone asks me to explain that writing  instruction that one must ‘show not tell’.  Rather than tell the reader that something was funny, you have to write an amusing scene, because for a reader like me, as soon as I see that something has been described as ‘hilarious’ or ‘side-splitting’, I immediately think ‘I bet it wasn’t. Prove it.’

Amusement is such a personal response that it can’t be forced or predicted.  A few months ago I went to a comedy  night in the basement of a pub in Crouch End .  It was perhaps unfortunate that I didn’t get there early enough not to have to sit right in the middle of the front row.   It was probably more unfortunate that I didn’t find the compère amusing, and that, even though I was making a conscious effort to keep as neutral an expression on my face as I could, whatever he saw there brought out the aggressive side of his nature.  He started haranguing me for not finding him funny; a strategy I couldn’t help but feel was somewhat misplaced, and one which was unlikely to convert me.

Fortunately, there is nothing more entertaining than telling the tale of an entirely unfunny comedian, once the torture of having to listen to them has ceased.

And this has led me to that ‘laughing at’ or ‘laughing with’ distinction; one a joyful sharing of an experience, the other something more cruel (but let’s be honest, not necessarily less enjoyable).

There are other subtle distinctions of language in this area, which enrich our usage of it, but which must also add to the pitfalls waiting for the person trying to learn English.  What of the difference between ‘funny’ and ‘laughable’?

I had fun looking them up in the thesaurus (each to their own entertainment, after all)

‘Funny’ can be amusing, comical, droll, witty (and might make you laugh) or  odd, quaint, weird, peculiar and  strange (which probably won’t).

‘Laughable’ on the other hand, could never be described as a good thing, being risible, pitiful, pathetic, ridiculous, absurd, preposterous, ludicrous, embarrassing, inadequate, derisory and mediocre.  I do find it interesting that the list of synonyms for this is longer than that for ‘funny’.  What does this say about us, I wonder?

I couldn’t resist looking up ‘Funny’ in the dictionary, where the most amusing thing I learnt was the word before it is ‘funniosity’ which, even though spellchecker doesn’t like it, is a real word, and not something made up by a judge on ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ as you might otherwise suppose, and means ‘a comical thing’.

So, your task for today is to use it in a sentence!

How would you feel if someone described you as ‘formidable’?

Now, that's formidable. The Hoover Dam

A couple of days ago my friend J told me about a conversation she’d had with a colleague.  The colleague had told J that in the period they had been working together, she thought J had developed into a really formidable woman.

In the subsequent conversation it transpired that it had been meant as a compliment, although J had not initially understood it as such and had been rather taken aback.

When she asked me, I agreed that the image the words ‘formidable woman’ conjures is that of a battle-axe felling everything in her path; and J is most certainly not that.  We pondered how it might be construed as complimentary, and the best I could come up with at the time was an idea of admirable strength.

I tried out the idea of  ’a formidable intellect’, but that still had a feel of something against which one wouldn’t necessarily have to pit oneself.

If you say it with a French accent it has a certain élan and suggests a celebration of the purely splendid; but none of us had the right accent.

I looked the word up in the dictionary, as frequently I can discover that I’ve not always understood the full elasticity of certain words.

In my OED ‘formidable’ comes between ‘formication’ (the sensation of ants crawling over the skin – who knew there was a word for that?  And even though my spell-checker has rejected it, it’s such an excellent word I’m going to have to find a way to use it!), and ‘formless’ (without determinate or recognisable form; not at all so interesting….)

But here we are: ‘Formidable’ – ‘to be dreaded or viewed with respect; likely to be hard to overcome, resist or deal with’.

So we were right; there’s not much room for manoeuvre there and not an adjective that one would seek out to describe oneself.

I  was interested though to see that to be dreaded and to be respected, if the definition is to be believed, have little to qualitatively distinguish them one from the other.

Is ‘respect’  a word for which the meaning is changing?  In contemporary common usage it encompasses a feeling of admiration that is lacking in the dictionary definition of implied deference.

In the meantime, I’ll offer ‘fabulous’ as an alternative ‘F’ word…..’incredible or marvellous’.

Respect.

Would you rather be ‘special’ or ‘essential’?

It’s a question I’ve been pondering since Barak Obama and David Cameron declared that the relationship between the UK and the US is no longer ‘special’, but is now ‘essential’.

According to one analyst on the news, in the ‘special’ period the was the risk of the impression that Britain was a bit desperate, and begging to be reassured that we were important to America, whereas in this new age of the essential, it is a more grown up period of interdependency.

Nick Robinson, the BBC political editor suggested that we think about this semantic difference in the context of a long term personal relationship.  ’Special’ is the adjective for the first flush of a romance, ‘essential’ comes with age and experience and a pragmatic lessening of emotion.

All this smacked to me of words games, so, of course, I consulted my dictionary.

‘Special’ denotes something of a particular kind, peculiar, not general, or for a particular purpose, or exceptional in amount or degree or intensity.

Special

‘Essential’ means of, or constituting, a thing’s essence, indispensable, or exceedingly important.

Essential

It seems there is a comparative element to specialness, whereas the essential is something that is inherent; something that you have to have whether you want it or not.

Or maybe, sometimes you want something that little bit special, but you’ll always need the essential.

I guess both could describe something good or something bad; something especially unpleasant or a necessary evil.

So looked at objectively, dictionary in hand, it just looks like a bit of rebranding, like when they changed the name of ‘Snickers’ to ‘Marathon’, and Opal Fruits to something that I keep forgetting, condemning me to receiving patronising stares from the trainee at the hairdressers  when I say that the shampoo smells a bit like them.

Let’s hope it’s successful and not like the rechristening of the Post Office to Consignia, before being expensively changed back, or that period when British Airways painted each of its aircraft with a different design, confusing everyone.

I woke up early yesterday morning; too early, so in an effort to lull myself back to sleep I turned the radio on.  The BBC World Service  news was holding all other stories waiting to switch to a live speech from President Obama.  It was in that half awake half light of just before dawn that I listened to the announcement of the killing of Bin Laden by US Special Forces.

Through the surreal quality of the experience one sentence in the speech stuck in my head.  …’[I] authorized an operation to get Osama Bin Laden and bring him to justice.’

The word ‘justice’ when used by the holder of high elected office, to me, brings with it an expectation of a judicial act, not a military one.

I don’t disagree with the outcome, but I wish there could be more honesty about what has just happened, especially in the words that are being used.  This was retribution, vengeance, revenge, state sponsored assassination, and I would have more respect for the actions and the people behind them if they could look steadily out from my television screen and speak the truth.

No effort was made to ‘bring him to justice’.  He was wanted ‘dead or alive’, and although that phrase was GW Bush’s, the ‘surgical strike’ and ‘fire fight’ last night lived up to the Wild West imagery of ‘instant rough justice’.

I am a freedom fighter, you are a terrorist.  I seek justice, you wreak revenge.

Maybe I am splitting hairs, but words are important, and the choice of vocabulary matters.

Meanwhile, the first headline I saw on my home page when I logged on to the internet yesterday morning was ‘Celebrities’ reactions to death of OBL’.   So I  must away and check in on what Posh and Becks have to say about the news.