Dear Off Topic Friends,
Last Friday, I spent the evening at my sister’s house - in theory we were meant to be watching a film, but we ended up talking for too long (even with the laptop already set up on a chair in front of us to remind us of our purpose) and so never quite got to it. Amongst other things, we were talking about words, as I’d seen a post on Twitter a few weeks earlier asking which words people irrationally took against.
Part of me dislikes any kind of censoring or judgment around words - they’re such joyful things with different connotations for each of us and I like that every family or group of friends will probably have their own unique shorthand around them - with some words a celebration of their traditions and rituals together, others made up, and some used ironically (even though outsiders might not be able to tell)1.
But for all that, if words are something we actively enjoy rather than just utilitarian letter groupings, it makes sense that we’ll have some we just irrationally loathe2. And I think there’s a weird joy in that. I like that I can think of a word and feel an almost whole-body shudder in response to it - a bit like eating one of those fizzy sour sweets that turn your face inside out - but because it’s so irrational, the only lasting effect is an even greater love of words because they allow for this kind of foible and idiosyncrasy.
Here are a few of the words and phrases I’ve personally taken against (although it’s the word itself, not the person saying it)…
My top three are whimsy/whimsical, mega, and brouhaha. And then in no particular order: soothingly, ladies, tender (to describe an action or meat - I dislike both uses), tickety-boo, fart (when my children were small, I told them this was a semi-swearword, assuming everyone felt that way about it…I had to backtrack when they reached school age and realised this wasn’t the case), sensuous/sensual, classy, womb, a bit cringe (I don’t mind the word cringe/cringing, just this particular way of phrasing it), boss lady, hump day (meaning Wednesday), self-care, Flo (the unauthorised shortening of my own name)3, saucy, rank (used to describe food, the k always sounds so harsh to my ears), eggy (I love eggs and this word threatens that. Also, eggybegweg, which my dad, and now my children, delight in saying knowing it’s like fingernails down a blackboard for me4), mucus and mucosal, pardon me/I beg your pardon (in case you’re wondering what alternatives I use to get around this: excuse me or I’m sorry?), kids (unless referring to goats), diarrhoea (as vile-sounding as it is impossible to spell. I prefer an upset stomach. Although that’s not an active request for one), a cheeky drink, secretion5, trendy, poignant (although I do use it sometimes; my disliked words aren’t rational), funky, belch, words that are fully absorbed into the english language said in an unnecessarily thickly-accented way - such as quesadilla or Paris, piquancy, bellicose, bolshy. And while we’re on the subject of taking against things…the expression take agin.
These words are a rollercoaster ride - just for a moment there is a thrill in quite how repugnant (and that is a truly awful word) I find them, and then there is the wish to turn and run. But I think words are also about context and the way they’re said or who they’re said by. I really dislike the word belly, but sitting down to eat with friends one evening, one looked at her plate and said, seemingly directly to the food itself, ‘Phwoar! Get in my belly!’ with such unconcealed relish that it momentarily neutralised the word and made it seem almost likeable. And as I wrote most of this post last Saturday morning, I can report that in the intervening days, I’ve been guilty of using TWO of the words on my own list: belly and tender. They somehow felt okay in the context I was using them in, but still I was unsettled by my inconsistency. It’s like colour synaesthesia (where words are associated with particular colours) - in most cases the name James will be yellow for me, but just occasionally, I’ll meet a James whose character transforms it to royal blue, and I’ll be left feeling like a weird changeling who can’t keep her words and colours straight (although I do think names are probably more susceptible to this kind of thing than regular words). This may only make sense to some, or perhaps it’s so innate that you’ve never even thought of it as being a thing - I don’t think I did until I was in my early 20s. I remember discovering my friend Donna makes the same associations when we were discussing Geoff Dyer’s novel, The Colour of Memory - it’s too long ago now to recall if that was a random offshoot conversation that came out of the book’s title, or if the story itself does actually touch on colour synaesthesia, but either way, I remember thinking it was an excellent book. That’s really a lucky dip sort of recommendation, isn’t it. Who knows what you might find if you follow up on it, but please report back. I’d quite like to reread it at some point, although I can’t find my original from the mid 90s and it’s since been republished with a different cover.
This week I’ve been reading The Book of Memory by Petina Gappah, about a black girl born with albino colouring, growing up in Zimbabwe - the goodness (in a soul, rather than a ten points for Gryffindor, sort of way) of some of the characters was moving. Also, how things can go misunderstood. And how we can come to regret things with time. It’s not a recent book and I’ve no idea quite how I stumbled across it, but I liked it.
I also listened to The Unknown Beloved by Amy Harmon, which was a recommendation from Mary Pigot. It would probably come under the crime genre, but it’s very much character-driven, with the focus primarily on the detective and his personal relationships, rather than the dismembered limbs that keep turning up. I found it utterly compelling and loved every minute of it, although the romance element did feel a little be-still-my-beating-heart at times. I say that only as a warning to others in case that’s not your thing; I’m fully on board with extreme romance. It was read by Rob Shapiro, and he was such an incredibly likeable narrator - that comment may only make sense if you listen, but I just think he’s so generous in what he brings to the characters.
Anyway, I would love to hear the words you’ve taken against, if you feel quite differently about the colour of James, or what you’ve been reading lately…
With love, and thanks for reading,
Florence x
There are some words I’ve adopted ironically and this is a really bad idea. Purely because we found it so appalling, my husband and I called each other Honey as a joke when we were 18. Over 25 years later, we are still trying to eradicate it from daily use.
Several years ago, I decided to try and stop using the word hate. I used to use it casually - I hate doing that/eating this/the smell of those - and it felt like an ugly sort of word that often overstated my dislike of things. In its place I’ve used words like don't like/dislike…but also sometimes loathe and detest, and actually they don’t sit nicely either. The latter feel less casual than the word hate, and that thoughtfulness /premeditation over word choice somehow seems to give them even more weight. If I’m writing, I’ll often instinctively twist things around to include more positive words - I don’t always enjoy/I’m less keen on - but when I’m speaking, it’s really just a case of grabbing at whatever’s there to try and appear a semi-normal human. I’m always surprised when women say they got to peri-menopause and suddenly couldn’t remember the word for basic things, suggesting it hadn’t been that way their entire life. When I reach that time, I will either become non-verbal or, because my body is prone to contrariness, develop a freakishly-fast processing power that leaves me and everyone else dizzy at my own mental agility…I’m really hoping for the latter.
When people shorten my name uninvited it always feels a bit like they’ve just reached across and removed an item of my clothing when I wasn’t expecting it. It’s always done with warmth, so I try not to let the horror show on my face, but still I’m sure there may be a second of involuntary eye-widening at the shock of my metaphorical cardigan or sock being taken in this way. I am oddly partial to name lengthening/variation from people I know though - for example*, Florencia is fine and my mum often calls me this. Ditto, I’m delighted when friends call me something completely unrelated - one opens texts with Hello Mrs Peabotty, and I think only good things about that. I’m guilty of doing this to others, too - I think of it as adding clothes, rather than taking them away, but perhaps some people don’t enjoy becoming overdressed in this way…
*I went to watch the comedian Stewart Lee last week and he had a very funny bit in his act about the use of the phrase for example and its inherent wrongness. But I couldn’t think of any other way to say it, and as I’d already revealed myself to be quite the rigid-thinker in the name-shortening department, there seemed little point trying to redeem myself over for example.
But I do love eggles, egglets, egglingtons, or any number of other variations. Also, I’ve realised I mention eggs in most newsletters. I’m really sorry if you’re vegan and its upsetting. Or if you just don’t like eggs.
Although this does remind me of a scene from Girls on Top, a 1980s television series starring Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders, Ruby Wax, and Tracey Ullman. When Tracey Ullman’s character is working in a department store trying to interest passersby in sampling a new perfume, she squirts it at them and calls out the perfume’s name hopefully, ‘Secretion?’ This used to make us laugh so much.
Also, in additional and unnumbered footnotes: that is such a youthful photo of our cat Bella included above - it was taken about 8 years ago and shows Bella enjoying the word mouse in any context, although thankfully she has never been a big mouser. She is quite a live-and-let-live sort of creature. But also one who will hold her ground even as an enormous dog strains on their lead and barks inches from her face. The enormous dog is not Nell by the way. Just the ones who pass the end of our drive, where Bella can be found on duty sometimes…although less so recently as her arthritis has prevented her from scrambling over the back gate to get there. Now she waits until we open the front door and she really only stays out for as long as whatever chatting we’re doing lasts. A woman walked by with her golden retriever the other day when we happened to be on the doorstep and said how much her dog had missed seeing Bella - I love that we’re not even aware of some of her friendships.
Last hump-day I was at a cafe in Paris getting some tender eggybegwegs (delicious, with a slight piquancy) in my belly and feeling tickety-boo when the classy ladies at the next table started farting and belching! One of them then gave a whimsical, soothing, sigh and the other one a saucy, sensual cough that saw some mucus fly out. Rank!!!
I had a mega brouhaha, my mood a bellicose one! No “pardon me” - just the repugnant sound of near-diarrhoea like secretions from the boss lady and her bolshy friend.
The trendy kids having a cheeky drink behind me said it was a bit cringe and I agreed!!
“Don’t take agin a pregnant woman” one of the ladies said. “It’s not Flo’s fault her womb is a bit funky!”
I felt bad and gave her my last quesadilla. “Enjoy some self-care” I said. It was a poignant moment.
Does anyone actually call you Flossie, I wonder, and, if so, how do you feel about that?