English is a beautiful language. Not because it is rhythmic or melodic or filled with words that slip off your tongue like caresses. No. English is a beautiful language because it’s a bloody mess. It’s a quilt made up of random scraps. A potluck dinner of a language. One of those cocktails students make by mixing every drink they have together in a hollowed out watermelon. And then drink. Without gagging. Because they are students.
Elton John wrote a song called “Sorry seems to be the hardest word”. He wouldn’t fit in around here. I wrote a post the other day about apologies, and a rather curious thing started to happen. People commenting on the post began claiming to be geographically sorry. Canada is a little remorseful. Australia is quite embarrassed and promises never to do it again. But the champions are the English. They are completely mortified and will do whatever they can to make it up to you.
My wife has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Years of chronic drug abuse have left her emotionally unbalanced. This morning, I woke to find her standing fully clothed at the foot of the bed.
“I”, she said, fixing me with an unnervingly level stare, “am going out!”
“What’s up? Have we run out of milk?”
“No. I am going out. For the day. Alone.”
“But what abou….”
“I”, she cut in, “am going now.”
“Are you taking the ki…”
“ALONE!” her voice cracked like a whip and she was gone. Continue reading
I’ve got myself into trouble again. I wrote a poem the other day about bank queues. It was silly. My wife saw it, and instead of smiling because it was silly, she decided that I was not nearly romantic enough, and would be writing her a love poem. I can’t do that. You see, I do not love my wife.
They say that the Eskimos have over a hundred different words for snow. I love the idea, and was devastated the other day to learn that they don’t. They have one.
Snow. Just snow. Continue reading