The Bridge

“WWOOOOOOOOHHHHHHH.”

Casterbridge — Thu, 01 Apr 2010 15:14:53 +0000

One of the best things about working from home is daytime television. No really. I’m amazingly easily sidetracked. The fact that there is a fridge in the kitchen is a big problem. It talks to me. “Come on. Open me. Have a little ice-cream. Perhaps an orange, that’s healthy you know.” It cajoles and whispers sweet everythings until I crack. I stop writing and open the fridge and I’m doomed to go visit the internet while I’m eating because I can’t concentrate now and all of a sudden an hour or two has passed non-productively.

So thanks heavens for daytime television. It’s so staggeringly dire that it’s impossible to watch. Soap operas where all the actors only went to the acting classes on expressing sadness. Quiz shows. Judge shows. “I slept with my grandmother’s girlfriend” shows. Daytime TV is impossible to watch.

Until Ellen. There, I said it. Ellen DeGeneris. The woman is a genius. Unashamedly upbeat and joyous, she infects her audience and her viewers with happiness. If I don’t turn the TV off before she starts, I’m captured for the next hour.

But there is a downside to her show for me, and it’s whooping. The audience goes crazy when she comes on, but they don’t just stand up and applaud and cheer, they whoop. “WWOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH.” “WWOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH.” And it’s not just at the opening of the show. She only has to ask an innocent question. “Is anyone here from Podunk?” “WWOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHH,” goes the complete audience.

I guess I’m a little jealous of this ability to whoop, because I can’t. I think it’s because I’m British. We are not genetically equipped to whoop. It was actually pointed out to me once in a spinning class when every other person in the class was letting out shrieks of joy at regular intervals but I was just thrashing away silently at the pedals. I did actually try a whoop, but it sounded like that pathetic little “yee-hah” uttered by Billy Crystal in City Slickers. I’m glad no-one heard it.

If I See This One More Time, I’m Going to Loose it!

Casterbridge — Wed, 24 Mar 2010 14:02:22 +0000

There is almost nothing, other than the use of the word “irregardless,” more guaranteed to start that vein in my temple pulsing than the use of “loose” when it should be “lose.” Happily the transposition doesn’t seem to operate in the other direction. In my previous corporate life I would receive emails quite regularly to inform me that the customer was “loosing data,” or the developer didn’t want to “loose focus” on a bug. In customer replies of course I would not point out the mistake, but I would take every opportunity to use the word “lose” until it was peppered all over the email or letter, usually to the detriment of the message. As for the developer, I would pick up a marker, go to his/her cubicle, and write on the white board “Loose = Not tight” and “Lose = Can’t find.” Of course, the developers delighted in this reaction and would take every opportunity they could to feed my frenzy in the same way they casually threw “irregardless” into every conversation just to see my temples throb.

Hey, what can I tell you? I straighten pictures. I straighten Scrabble tiles. If I see a woman with a clothing label protruding at the neckline, I almost have to sit on my hands to resist the urge to pop it back inside unasked and risk a harassment lawsuit that I would probably loose.

…and Bob’s Your Uncle.

Casterbridge — Sun, 21 Mar 2010 14:59:16 +0000

I can’t understand why Americans think the British are quaint. Possibly Masterpiece Theatre has a lot to do with it. When a Brit is talking to a Yank, even if said Brit is wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and flip-flops, the British accent seems to overwhelm the senses of the naive American listener. Suddenly the person standing before them is dressed in a top hat and morning coat (male) or a crinoline dress and lace bonnet (female) ready to climb aboard the pony and trap for the trip to the manor house.
This doesn’t work so well for seasoned Americans who have worked alongside Brits for some time. But even they can be stopped in their tracks by a sudden phrase, such as “Bob’s your uncle.”

Here’s how it goes. “It’s easy. You just press the power button to turn it on, press the channel buttons until you’ve found the channel you want, press the record button, and Bob’s your uncle.” And with that phrase, all that has gone before is forgotten. “Bob’s my uncle? I don’t have an uncle Bob. And even if I did, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Bob’s your uncle” is a well-known (in Britain) British idiom. Explaining it is not easy. It means something like …and there you go” or …and you’re all set.” Its origin is unclear. The most common explanation is that it’s derived from the 1880s when the British Prime Minister Robert Cecil appointed his nephew Arthur Balfour to a top government post. This overt nepotism is said to have led to Uncle Bob becoming a catch-phrase for anything that turned out well.

Packed Up

Casterbridge — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 14:14:29 +0000

It’s snowing! In October for goodness’ sake. October 16th. Needless to say, it’s a mite cold. It’s only a few weeks since we were sitting on the beach soaking up the sunshine. Sorry, I’m getting carried away from the point of the post. I expect that anyone reading this title and then reading my whining about the snow would deduce that I’m about to load up a couple of suitcases and head for Florida. But no. Read on.

I’m sitting in my local coffee shop writing this. Now that’s something I like to do anyway. It’s warm, there’s a happy buzz about the place, the background murmuring is, for me, quite conducive to writing. But today it’s not about the ambiance. Our heating system at home has failed. Luckily, Mrs. Tunsley is out all day at some gardening seminar thingy. So I have time to get things fixed before she gets back this evening.

I detest being at a loss when faced by a machine. It’s just metal and plastic and stuff after all. So I confront the errant oil boiler, scowl at it to intimidate it, and take off the front panel. Oh dear, there’s wires all over the place. And it’s buzzing. I find a power switch and flip it – buzzing stops. Flip it again – buzzing starts. But no ignition. I press a couple of red buttons. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, that’s to press any red button available if things are not working well. This has sometimes had negative consequences, like when I inadvertently cut the winch cable on a helicopter; luckily there was no-one being winched at the time. Often though it seems to fix things. But not today.

So, to the coffee shop. But first, I will arrange professional help. There’s a number on a card hanging from the boiler from its last service. I make the call. Here is a transcript of the conversation:

Young Lady At The Oil Boiler Servicing Establishment: (perky and unquestionably friendly) “Hello, Oil Boiler Servicing Establishment, how can I help you?”
Me: (grumpy) “Hi, yes, my heating’s packed up.”
YLATOBSE: (confused) “Excuse me?”
M: (tiny bit grumpier) “I said my heating’s packed up.”
YLATOBSE: (tiny bit confrontational) “I don’t understand sir, what’s packed up?”
M: (frustrated) “My heating, the oil boiler furnace thingy. It won’t work. I’m cold. I need someone to make it go.”
YLATOBSE: (now cold, standoffish, very clearly enunciating) “So your furnace is not working and you would like someone to come and repair it.”
M: (angry, how can she not understand) “Yes, yes, my furnace is not working and I’d like someone to come and repair it, yes.”
YLATOBSE: (just get rid of this bozo) “Yes sir, I understand now. Let me put you through to our service manager.”

The rest of the conversation is not important. The point is that even after 20 years in this country, I still have the power to use Britishisms to completely confuse people. And when I think about it, the phrase “My heating’s packed up” is indeed thoroughly confusing to strangers. If the YLATOBSE ever reads this post, I apologize.

Plack?

Casterbridge — Mon, 24 Aug 2009 13:59:41 +0000

In reviewing the previous post I suddenly had a realization that I had used the word “plaque” without checking it. Very uncool for someone who makes a living writing. I know that plaque is the stuff that adheres to your teeth every six months on the day before you go to the dentist, no matter how much you have brushed, flossed, and Steridented. So I was a little concerned that my readers would have a mental image of the side of our house with a film of yellow gunge being scraped off by a lady wearing a welders mask.

Does plaque have the same alternative meaning in the US as in the UK – a flat piece of metal or ceramic material sporting text for various purposes? Is it spelled the same or has it been amended to a simpler (and more sensible, sorry Brits) form as in the word cheque/check in the banking world. Thankfully it seems to be unchanged. But why would that be? Why would the spelling changes in the English language that have taken place over time not be applied more consistently? In looking into this, albeit briefly, I came across the word lacquer. Now that’s different as well. There’s an extra c there as well as the clumsy que. At the bottom of the dictionary entry was the phrase “Also spelled lacker.” Wow, is that ugly. Lets stick with lacquer.

The English language is a strange and wonderful playground.

Whither Casterbridge

Casterbridge — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 16:13:48 +0000

Casterbridge, as many of you literary types will already know, is a fictitious name for the town of Dorchester in the south of England. The name was invented by the writer Thomas Hardy and used most famously in his book The Mayor of Casterbridge.

So what does the name Casterbridge have to do with business writing? Nothing at all. My wife and I spent our teenage years in Dorchester (this of course was when dinosaurs ruled the earth) and we always liked the name. In England, we have a custom of naming our houses. Quaint, isn’t it? Not Sally or Dave of course, that would be silly. No, we British are much more sensible than that. Look at the houses in any street in Britain and you will see, next to the front door, plaques bearing sensible names such as Dunromin, Kantafordyt, Wynding Down, and my favorite on a basement apartment, Wuthering Depths.

Our own house in England was thus for many years adorned with the name Casterbridge engraved into a granite plaque. When we moved to the USA we brought the plaque with us intending to have a ceremonial naming of our new house. We quickly realized that people just don’t do that here. If we put the plaque up, then everyone would think that Mr. and Mrs. Casterbridge lived here and we would never get any mail. Worse, once we fessed up to the USPS that Casterbridge was not our name, they would send in the Sopranos to beat the soles of our feet until we removed it from the house.

So the plaque is now by the back door where it only confuses our visitors.