Had to share a fabulous example of twisted kid’s language given to me by my lovely friend Amanda…
Her sister’s family used to holiday down in Cornwall, and the long car journey was punctuated by her niece Molly proclaiming, “We’re going to Ken’s pants! We’re going to Ken’s pants!”
I’m never going to think of Penzance the same way again…
Thanks, Molly.
I’m not sure what I love most about this Mother’s day card, given to my sister by my nephew:
T is for tights
Spotted these funny notes in the Huffington Post this morning, and thought I’d share them with you… The one about the tits / tights reminded me of something: about 20 years ago my elder sister decided that instead of shaving or waxing her legs she’d try bleaching them. On holiday that summer my then-boyfriend, with no hint of irony, complimented her on her expensive angora tights. That in turn reminded me of a compliment paid to our Sunday school teacher by a friend of mine: ‘Oh Mrs Grant, how your moustache glistens in the sun!’
No talking
My dad is the best cook ever…
Bull running in Céret
Céret is famous for three things: its Musée d’Art Moderne1; its cherries; and its feria.
Running over Bastille weekend, the Céret feria, which finished yesterday, is a 3-day festival of bullshit, horse-shit, testosterone and pee. It is famous for its bull-running and bullfights, and for being an orgy of drunkenness that attracts thousands of revellers to the town (both the bullfights and the drunks leading to a fair share of controversy).
The feria temporarily transforms Céret from a picturesque, tranquil, civilised ville to a loutish, shouty party-vile, where the rosé is warm, the beer is cheap and the streets run with rivers of pee. Like bulls spotting the crimson swirl of a torreador’s cape, the pissed, pumped-up rugby players thronging Céret’s streets snort, bellow and paw the ground at the sight of red-lipped girls wearing shorts, crop tops and red & yellow USAP socks. Read more…
My partner is careless with books, cracking their spines so they stay open more easily; folding down corners so that he can find his place; using them as extemporised coffe mats to protect the arm of the sofa. Books which go to him pristine, their pages crackly with promise, are likely to come back ringed with coffee stains, their covers cracked, stitching loosened, pages turned down. (Disclosure: I’m by no means perfect when it comes to looking after books and have even been known to read them in the bath, leaving them swollen and wrinkled.)
The book he’s reading at the moment, however, is a signed, first edition: Piers Paul Read’s true story about the survivors of a plane crash who resort to cannibalism to survive (for some reason Nick thought this would make hilarious reading for our plane journey across the Pyrenees with the kids). He sits up to read this, holding it in two hands, never opening it beyond 120° and using a proper bookmark. He has also given the kids strict instructions not to tickle or splash him when he’s reading it down by the pool during our holidays. (Just realised that I have written ‘holidays’, rather than ‘holiday’: it must be from spending too much time in France, where it’s always plural – les vacances.) Read more…
My nephew Sebastian had a panoply of changed words and meanings:
“Effisgator!” he used to shout as my sister drove down the M4: it took a while to work out that this digger-loving three year old was spotting yellow JCB excavators (this was pre-Bob the Builder so perhaps inspired by Dig Dig Digging?).
“Stacky backy mash boe!” This was Seb’s frustrated two year old’s version of ‘just back off [or similar four letter words ending in **ck] and leave me alone’. (I might adopt that one myself: it would certainly save on the swear box donations.)
“Hinxie needs some milk”. This was Seb (aged 2 1/2) trying to say ‘Think he needs some milk’, when he was worried that his crying baby brother Alex might need breastfeeding. From then on, Alex was known as ‘Hinxy’, later ‘Hinx’.
Be good to hear your own versions of baby-talk, family expressions and phrases and names that just don’t feel right if you change the order around…
Sometimes children’s mixed up words are the result of their not being able to get their mouths around a difficult word or phrase – my nephew Seb saying ‘Effisgator!‘ for ‘excavator’, for instance.
At other times, as when Molly said ‘Ken’s Pants‘ for ‘Penzance’, they’re the result of kids making their own story out to make sense of something they couldn’t understand, or that they’ve misheard.
Molly’s phrase is an example of mondegreen. And if you’ve never heard the phrase (I hadn’t, until a Wiki search earlier today), and you’re wondering what on earth I’m on about, mondegreen is the mishearing of a phrase because of a near-homophony. In other words, something sounds like something else, so you mis-say it.
A classic example of this is the transformation of ‘Gladly my cross I’d bear’, from the eponymous hymn, to ‘Gladly, my cross-eyed bear’: even if this is, as rumoured, an urban myth, it still makes me go ‘Ah’.
The etymology of Mondegreen can be followed here, on Wikipedia. Briefly, an American writer named Sylvia Wright coined the term for an essay she wrote for Harper’s Magazine in 1954.
Her mother had read aloud to her from Percy’s Reliques of Ancient English Poetry:
Ye Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Oh, where hae ye been?
They hae slain the Earl O’ Moray,
And Lady Mondegreen.
The actual fourth line was ‘And laid him on the green’…
Flexible workspace for small businesses to rent in Aller, Somerset
Ideas Worth Spreading
meraki: the soul, creativity or love placed in something, the essence of yourself in your work
Fran, Gareth and friends explore the world on Hal, our 35ft yacht
Just me. Being me.
Random topics and conversation about how I view the world I live in
My curious little blog.
Selling discount truths at an exorbitant price! (Wrap your mind around that one)
Novel = New, Work of Fiction: Fact + History = Factory
I’m running the 2013 London Marathon for ICAN
adventures in language and life
a word bird reflects on life & language
Stuff I think about...
Dreaming of waves...
There's no place like home. Especially if you don't live there.
Letters from London by Giovanna Forte
