The show that launched the careers of song-writing musical team Lynn Ahrens and Stephen Flaherty (who went on to write hits such as Ragtime), Lucky Stiff is a manic, madcap, slapstick number with zero plot realism but full marks for entertainment value. Loosely based on the 1935 film…
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I have just acquired a new friend or, perhaps I should say, a new incarnation of an old friend. My old one has retired to a well-earned rest, after ten years of inexhaustible patience and loyalty, his jacket a little creased and bleached through lying too long in the sun, and a few accidental specks of crimson gouache on his side. That’s what comes of being a steady companion of all my artistic games.
This new one arrived for his shift a couple of weeks ago, with the inscription Luxury Edition embossed in silver letters on his black spine, and sporting a glossy jacket with a pattern of large royal blue, lime green, and scarlet swirls. He wears a small golden circle on his lapel, with the dates 1911 and 2011 stamped in the centre, to commemorate his hundredth birthday. His name is printed on his chest in large sky blue and brilliant white letters: Concise Oxford English Dictionary.
This new fellow has two peculiarities, one being a scarlet bookmark. Does anyone mark the pages of a dictionary? His other quirk is the odd placement of indentations to mark the alphabetical entries, in that the indentations are not carved out at the start of the alphabetical sections – as one would expect – but somewhere in the middle. So, for instance, when you open the book at the indentation marked ‘A’, you find the first entry on the page to be ‘AH’, while all the preceding A-words start some twenty-six pages earlier. Similarly, when you open at the indentation marked ‘C-D’, you find yourself staring at ‘crimp’, instead of ‘C’, which is 145 pages earlier. A touch of eccentricity? He also lists favourite as a verb, in the context of websites. Trendy, too.
The COED is not my first love, but one that has proved the most long-standing, so far.
My childhood sweetheart was a 1953 Nouveau Petit Larousse Illustré. He had briefly taught my mother during a French language fling, and was kept on by the family, in case his services were ever required again. When I was nine, we moved to France and I was sent – for the first and last time – to an all girls school, where the inmates used my shins as a kick-posts, and found it très amusant to call me names I could not understand but for which the lymphatic maîtresse would occasionally – in between yawns – tell them off. At that point, the faithful tutor was woken up after two decades of slumber, dusted, and my after-school education entrusted to him. He instantly rose to the challenge, and proceeded to take me on a trip to the foreign land of French Vocabulary. A true Renaissance man, he had more than one skill. He possessed within his dusky rose binding not only a list of alphabetised words, but dainty, ink drawings, with the occasional full-colour inset for illustrations such as world flags, flowers, butterflies and mushrooms. The back of the volume had a list of noms propres, with information on and portraits of famous historical figures, as well as geographical locations. These two sections were separated by thirty pink pages, entitled Locutions Latines et Etrangères, where you could find idioms, maxims and proverbs – mainly in Latin, but a few in other languages, too. Monsieur Larousse had such irresistible charm, that it wasn’t long before I preferred his company to that of any other book at my disposal. It became a nightly event, after I had finished my homework and my dinner, to bring the large, heavy volume on the kitchen table, open it at random, and start memorising whichever words captured my imagination, longing for an occasion where I could use them. The biographical section gave me a taste for history, and I thought learning the various Latin sayings would impress the boys. Live and learn.
Eventually, I became fluent in French, even scoring a high mark at my Baccalauréat. As a gesture of thanks for his exemplary service, and even though a younger edition was now taking on some of his workload, my family awarded the 1953 Nouveau Petit Larousse Illustré a brand-new binding, in a burnt rose tint, to replace his torn and scotch-taped dusky rose original. I sometimes consult him even now. He still remembers things which his successors never even learnt.
Shortly after leaving the tutelage of Monsieur Larousse, I was introduced to the Concise Oxford English Dictionary. Cox, to his friends. Once again, I had been blown into a strange land, with an even stranger language. One which is not built on solid grammatical foundations, but which prides itself for its mercurial indomitability. And so, once again, I began spending hours with Cox, opening him at random pages, fascinated by the spelling, the sound, the flavour and the spirit of his words. Alpenglow. Crannog. Glaucous. Mythopoeia. Each word a microcosm of endless possibilities.
There are two books that do not live on bookcases but are in permanent residence on my work table. One is a copy of Roget’s International Thesaurus. The other, is my friend Cox. He is my mentor, my inspiration, my favourite games companion, my ally.
When I start teaching at a new language school, the first thing I do is scan the bookshelves for a copy of the COED. I find that most of my colleagues opt for the Collins, the Chambers, the Longman probably being a favourite. I reach out for them only when I cannot find the COED. I mean no offence or slight here. They are in no way inferior. It’s simply that every craftsman has his or her favourite tool and logic does not come into it. Cox and I have come a long way together. We know each-other’s style and quirks. We make a good team. Boustrophedon. Deontic. Idyll. Melliferous… Bliss.
© Scribe Doll
I am warming my stiffened fingers on the green pillar candle on my desk. Forest green. I bought it from Robert Sayle’s. The flame is dancing on the sloped ceiling of my attic room. The East Anglian wind is rattling my window. I am wearing flannel pyjamas, two pairs of socks, white Aran jumper, dressing gown, woolly hat and, as soon as I stop scribbling and get into bed, I’ll put on my gloves, and my feet will search for the hot water bottle. I reach for the jar of smooth peanut butter next to my Concise Oxford and eat a spoonful. My landlady says it’s wasteful to have the radiators so hot, they scorch. She has had the water temperature in the bathroom turned down, because it’s pointless having water so hot, you have to dilute it with cold. She tells me this is all character-building – something she clearly thinks I need. I can tell by the way she says, “You have a healthy appetite. If my children ate as much as you do, I wouldn’t worry about them” whenever she watches me during dinner. Not that I ever have dinner, except on Mondays, when there is no Evensong at King’s, and I am home from school in time for 6 p.m. The other evenings, I am not back till 6.45, by the time I cycle up the hill. My friends’ landladies keep their suppers in the oven for them but since my landlady has never offered this as an option, I don’t want to cause a fuss. Hence, the jar of smooth peanut butter and teaspoon, on my desk. I have no record or cassette player, and I need music like I need air to breathe. King’s College Chapel provides a nightly dose of divine musical nourishment to my soul, free of charge, even though it clashes with the meal intended for my body. I sigh and watch my breath cloud the air. I scoop another mound of peanut butter, and let its saltiness melt in my mouth. I don’t want to complain to the school accommodation officer. Perhaps there is nothing unusual about my landlady, and all the English are like that. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Besides, I am having far too much fun to mind the discomfort. Someday, I am going to be a writer, and writers all go to bed hungry and live in cold attics when they are young. I feel like a character from La Bohème.
I am nineteen, and have just left home for the first time. The first week was a nasty culture shock for me. I am half English but grew up on what the English refer to as the Continent. I bought a hairdryer and washed my hair as soon as I got back home. Imagine my shock when I opened the box and was confronted with a hairdryer with a lead – but no plug. I thought my landlady was teasing me when she assured me that was normal in England, and that you had to buy the plug separately, and wire it yourself. Then, I have never before seen a bathroom sink with separate spouts for hot and cold water. You have to swing your hands from one to the other, alternating between scorching your skin and shocking it with cold. On top of the sadistic plumbing, there’s the daily subcutaneous injections of sarcasm I get from the English about my accent. “Oh, that’s so American!” they mutter whenever I speak. Yes, I am half English but the British school abroad was more expensive than the American school, and you needed to wear a uniform made of a grey skirt and a cerise-burgundy blazer. My mother told me the story of Paul Revere, when I was a child, so I wouldn’t have been caught dead looking like a Redcoat. So, in the first few weeks, when the paper-cut comments about my accent were particularly deep, I often sat in my room, crying with anger and despair. Now, I know there is only one thing to do, and that is to beat them at their own game. I listen to them speak, and try and memorise the tight, chesty and imperceptibly slurred way they pronounce their words, as though they are discarding unwanted food on their plates. Once alone in my room, I try and produce as close as possible an imitation. I keep telling myself that one day, they will look up to me!
At night, before bed, I often take out my bicycle, a silver-grey Raleigh. I cycle past Fitzwilliam College and New Hall, acquiring speed just as the road dips downhill. A few more vigorous pushes on the pedals, and I am whizzing past Magdalene College, singing I Have Confidence in Me or My Favorite Things, from The Sound of Music, to myself. I have never seen the film, but my mother says it’s one of the best musicals. I came across the soundtrack in the music shop on Hobson Street, and bought it. My landlady sometimes allows me to use her record player and, as it’s the only record I own here, I play it all the time, and have learnt a few of the songs by heart. With any luck, the traffic lights on the corner with St John’s are green, so I fly into Trinity Street, past Heffers – the best bookshop in the world. They have a wonderful stationery department on Sidney Street, too. In my first week, I saw two undergraduates, their gowns slung over their shoulders, standing outside, discussing Plato. I pretended to be looking at the shop window, and listened. A whole new world, waiting for me to explore it. One I want to be a part of. One of the undergraduates had blond hair cropped very short at the back, mop flopping over one eye, like Rupert Brooke. Cambridge men are so handsome! I slow down on my bicycle as I see the spires of King’s College Chapel and Porter’s Lodge. This is where I come when I am feeling deeply unhappy or wildly happy. It is the place where I come to share my hopes and my dreams. It is where, every afternoon, after class, I rush to be first in the queue, so that I can get my favourite seat – at the edge of the second row, on the right-hand side as you walk past the organ screen, next to the Choral Scholars. I am quite smitten with the tall, curly-haired, mousy counter-tenor in the stalls across from me. He sings like an angel. I also regularly exchange looks with the tenor in the middle of the row, the one with mischievous green eyes and dark, tousled hair. All the Choral Scholars know me by sight, by now, but none of them ever says hello to me after Evensong. The tenor smiled at me, the other day. I wonder what his name is.
I love everything about this city. Everything here feels magical. The architecture looks as though it has been plucked out of a fairy tale. It is proud of its ancient stones which whisper stories of centuries of learning and ambitions. The sky changes its mood with dramatic speed. One moment, it is a vivid, Cyan blue. The next, the wind blows lead grey clouds from the Fens, over land so flat you feel the horizon goes on for ever. The Fens are an almost fluorescent green in contrast with the dark sky. On that green, jet black, glossy crows. Their raucous conversation is as inseparable a part of Cambridge, for me, as the elms in Grantchester Meadows, the weeping willows that sway over the Cam, the music of Ralph Vaughan Williams, the haunting tune of Greensleeves, and the brimming sense of hope. For me, this is a new world, a new life. Anything is possible here. It’s 1984. I am nineteen.
* * *
I had coffee with a friend, in Notting Hill, today. Afterwards, I went to browse in a hardware store. I came across a tall, green pillar candle. Forest green. When I was nineteen, I had one just like it, on my desk, in Cambridge. I bought it and, this evening, lit it on my desk. There is the face of a nineteen year-old girl grinning in its flame. She is full of hope, and is inviting me to join her in the pursuit of her dreams, and the fulfilment of her many hopes. I smile back at her. She winks at me.
© Scribe Doll
Say sidewalk, elevator or garbage, and the English will wince in disgust and mutter the almost unspeakable. “That’s American,” they will remark before casting you out of Society for polluting the purity of Shakespeare’s tongue. Using French, however, suggests to them a classy je ne sais quoi.
Still, here again, certain rules of etiquette apply. The first thing to remember, when adding a dash of French to your English speech, is never, ever to pronounce it in a way so accurate, people could mistake you for an actual French person. You need to coat the Gallic expressions with a slur à l’anglaise. After all, a little knowledge is charming, but too much is viewed as rudely threatening (see George Mikes, How to Be an Alien).
In my student days, there was a coffee shop on the Green just by Durham Castle. They served a summer drink which consisted of freshly squeezed lemon juice at the bottom of a tall glass, you then diluted to taste with iced water. It was listed on the menu as citron pressé. With a brand-new French degree in my pocket, I went there with my friends, and ordered the beverage in my best French accent, pursing my lips for a sexy “o”, and making my “r” so guttural, it vibrated. I took care to stress the last vowel of both words. The waitress looked apologetic, and said they did not have that on the menu. My friends rolled their eyes and sent signals of disapproval in my direction. I repeated my order, this time shifting the stress to the first syllables (“CItron PRESSé”), and only alluded to the “r”. My drink was promptly served.
The second thing to bear in mind, is that it is generally not considered chic to use French in the way the French intended. Thus, a double entendre does not actually exist in France. What they have, is a discourse à double entente. Also, across the Channel, une crèche is a Nativity. So, unless you are planning on dressing up your toddlers as Mary, a shepherd or an ass, you had better, perhaps, drop them off at a nursery, and take your chances with the likelihood of your offspring sprouting branches. Moreover, the anaemic stodge our Soho cafés call baguette, brioche or croissant, bears little resemblance to the light, airy, fragrant creations you savour in Montmartre.
On the subject of food, those of us with Continental pretentions will wish our fellow-diners “Bon appétit!” There is no English equivalent. Partly because traditional English food is more sustenance than pleasure, and partly because our traditional English austerity considers the enjoyment of food a bit frivolous – but saying it in French somehow makes it acceptable. Giving a dish a Gallic name raises its status. Thus, cold leek and potato soup becomes more distinguished as a Vichyssoise, pancakes are more sophisticated as crêpes and anything in batter tastes better en croûte.
For dinner, tonight, I plan to have potatoes en veston, baked en manteau d’argent*.
* Jacket potatoes baked in foil.
© Scribe Doll
Someone should coin the phrase “bandwagon play”. Not that there is anything wrong with drawing a story from an item of current affairs fracas, and produce a piece of drama that makes history alongside History – as long as it actually makes history. For that, it needs to be…
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Who was it, that first had the idea of putting an x by the signature, to symbolise a kiss?In every social missive we receive, be it an e-mail, a card, or a text message, our contact’s name is appended with an x. Sometimes, the x brings a friend along; sometimes two. At other times, there is a troika, or even an entire party, standing in a row.
How did x mutate from the signature of illiterate people, to a smack of the lips?
For years now, I have been trying to solve the riddle of the x etiquette, without success. Do you put an x whenever – given physical proximity – you would apply an actual kiss? A former boss of mine, a stern man of, shall we say, inexpressive emotional expression, once signed my birthday card, adding an x. I stared at the incongruous symbol, fully aware of the fact that the possibility of a physical peck on my cheek from said boss could only take place in a universe manifested through absinthe laced with gin. More recently, a literary agent I approached sent me a text message and added the x next to his signature. I shuddered.
Then, of course, there is the eternal question: how many of these little blighters do we put, and when?
x = Easy. One kiss on the cheek.
x x = Two kisses. One on each cheek.
x x x = Three kisses. One cheek, the other, then back to the first. Russian style. Or does the third steal a kiss on the lips? Perhaps we had better not go there.
x x x x = ?
x x x x x = ???
x x x x x x x x x x x x… Aaargh! Help!
That’s it. Let teenagers and twenty-somethings study the numerology of the x. I am going to ignore it from now on, and dispense with its services. My signature does not need accessorizing. It does look a little naked on its own, though. That’s all right. It’s just a withdrawal symptom. I can do this. 😘
© ScribeDoll
Saturday: The country is being squeezed by financial cuts. Child poverty is rising sharply. The rate of unemployment is high. The cost of living is escalating while salaries are dropping. Yet, last Saturday, a six-figure sum (I could not find the exact figure) was spent on the official New Year’s Eve fireworks, in London alone. The expression “money going up in smoke” comes to mind.
Sunday: London Transport fares have risen by approximately 7% with the start of the year. I understand that the Government considers this a fairer option than funding the increase with Taxpayer money. What I do not understand, is – don’t commuters pay taxes? Aren’t they taxpayers?
Monday: Some blame our current economic mess on people borrowing money from the banks, which they are unable to repay. I popped into my local bank branch just to ask them to print me out a statement, since the machine was out of order. Totally, unsolicited, the personal banker informed me that I qualified for a loan… I held up my hand, gave her a dirty look and said, “Don’t even finish that sentence.”
Tuesday: We are told that it is wicked to waste food, and that the planet’s resources are depleted. On London markets, they sell large bowls of fruit and vegetables for a mere £1. Try saying that it’s far too much food for you, and ask if you can buy less. The seller will inflict the whole lot of you. Inevitably, you end up throwing much of it in the bin but you have been practically forced to waste food. In my limited understanding of Economy, prices rise when an item is in short supply. Since there appears to be such a surplus of bananas, apples, ginger, potatoes, etc. that they are sold for next to nothing, why are there people starving in so many parts of the world? Why aren’t the planet’s resources distributed more efficiently?
Wednesday: I met a lady in the park. We got chatting about garden wildlife. “I got rid of all the magpies,” she said. “Nasty birds. They eat the young of other birds.”
That is, indeed, harrowing cruelty. Humans would never eat the young of other species. Never would they serve up lamb, veal, suckling pig, or split cut the entrails of a pregnant fish to eat thousands of unborn fish (that’s caviar, to you and me).
Thursday: Adopting children in the UK is a gruelling, tortuous process. All too often people over the age of forty are deemed too old to adopt. Yet doctors liberally provide fertility treatment and IVF to women in their fifties and even sixties.
Friday: A lady saw me feeding crows in the park. “Horrible birds,” she shuddered in disgust. “They eat carrion.”
I was tempted to ask her how many weeks or even months she kept meat in her freezer before eating it – but engaging with stupidity seemed a foolish exercise.
The great Ivan Andreyevich Krylov, known as Russia’s La Fontaine, has a fable about a monkey who catches sight of her reflection in a mirror. She nudges the bear. “Look, my dear friend, at that muzzle! Look – what grimaces and contortions! I would die if I looked like that even a little!”
The bear suggests the monkey take a look at herself; but his counsel falls on deaf ears.
© Scribe Doll
When I was nine years old, and we were living in Nice, I would sit by the window, in my pyjamas, and watch the neighbours leave home to go to various New Year’s Eve festivities. The men all wore black tie, and the women slunk and sparkled. I gazed and sighed, with occasional interruptions by my mother ordering me to bed. I visualised them dining in the carpeted, glittering rooms of the Hôtel Negresco, then sipping pink champagne, watching golden fireworks reflected in the night sea of the Baie des Anges. Once in bed, I projected on the dark screen of my closed eyelids a film of my New Year’s Eves to come. I carefully designed my evening gown, in midnight blue satin. I imagined gliding down a palatial staircase on the arm of a dinner suit. The contents of the dinner suit were a rough sketch of someone tall and skinny, and a wonderful dancer. Someone very intelligent and very shy (my nine year-old self’s taste in men.)
I could not wait to grow up.
… Except that, by the time I did grow up, the fashion had changed and I felt rather short-changed. Outside a few echelons of Society, beyond my immediate reach, New Year’s Eve party goers are now generally clad in ‘smart casual’ attire. The women, at least, make a visible effort by donning aggressive-looking footwear and the odd sparkling shawl. Men, however, go for the I-am-being-myself look (with apologies to well-groomed men – do come up and introduce yourselves, later.)
For several years now, I have been trying to infiltrate groups where formal dress on New Year’s Eve is a strict requirement, but without success. Any tips? Go on, humour me. Help make a girlish fantasy come true.
I love New Year’s Eve. A new beginning. A clean slate. A page full of possibilities.
One of my favourite New Year’s Eve tasks, is to update my Filofax (yes, Filofax.) I ponder over every name. Has he/she been in touch in the past year? Has he/she returned my calls or responded to my e-mails? No? Then he/she gets omitted from the newly transcribed database. All right, all right. In some cases, I apply a two-year rule. Why don’t I keep people’s details, just in case? In case of what? Bring on the broom; let’s sweep the house clean. Fling open the doors and windows, and let new people in!
In parts of Rome, people used to throw old furniture over the balcony, down into the street. They still set off loud firecrackers. The more noise, the better, to boot the Old Year out. They hang miniature broomsticks over their front doors, scacciaguai to keep the house clear of troubles.
31st December is also a time for New Year’s resolutions. How I love writing those! I feel unstoppable and more than capable of keeping every resolution I write down on every line of an A4 sheet of paper. There will be time enough to review my stamina and edit the list on 2nd January. For now, everything is possible, including next New Year’s Eve perfect party. A live orchestra, a roomful of dinner suits and evening dresses, including my own (I can’t decide between claret red and holly green), pink champagne in fine crystal flutes, fireworks dancing on gently rippling waters. A Venetian palazzo would be the ideal setting for such a party.
Invitations welcome.
And, talking of resolutions, perhaps you might find a wee space for a request on my part. If you enjoy my posts, perhaps you could consider slipping a compliment into the Comments section, or even just click on the ‘Like‘ star? (Some of you already do it, and ‘bless your hearts for it.) Writing a blog is like walking on a deserted field with a sack of words over your shoulder. A you walk, you take a handful of words, and toss it in the air, not knowing where any of them will land, or where the wind will carry them. ScribeDoll exists thanks to you. You make her real by reading her. Every encouraging comment, or star will be like a flower suddenly sprouting from the ground where a word has landed.
I wish you all a perfectly happy New Year. May 2012 bring you the Horn of Plenty, and allow you to stretch your talents and opportunities to the full.
© Scribe Doll
My Russian-Armenian grandmother celebrated on Christmas Eve. That was when she served the special dinner, after which presents were unwrapped. Christmas Eve was also full of mystery and magic. It was when Gogol’s witch flew out on her broomstick, plucking the stars from the sky, and tucking them down her ample sleeves; when the devil tried to steal the moon by throwing a cloth sack over it, scorching his fingers in the process.
A night for telling fairy tales.
Christmas Day was the anticlimax, when we ate the leftovers and lounged around, watching MGM musicals on television.
As I grew up, my English half took over for a while, and Christmas Eve became the time for fussing and preparing for the Big Day. A night for frantically peeling Brussels sprouts and parsnips before sealing them in freezer bags, ready to be cooked.
In recent years, I have worked out the perfect balance between my Eastern and my Western sides – I celebrate both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. For two days, I feast and make merry. No, I do not feel guilty about enjoying copious amounts of delicious food. My ancestors celebrated Christmas for twelve whole days. That leaves me plenty of room to feel smug about my comparative frugality.
On Christmas Day, I like to be in the company of others. The more, the merrier. Friends are marginally preferable to family. On Christmas Eve, on the other hand, I prefer a few hours of solitude, so that I can re-enter the magic world of my grandmother’s Christmases, undisturbed… Just as I am doing, this afternoon.
It is nearly three, and I am nearly ready. The miniature Christmas tree on my desk is lit up with white fairy lights; the Advent candle flame is slowly burning into the number 24 stamped in gold on the red wax. Next to me, a mug of hot chocolate – with a pinch of cayenne – and, on a plate, a large wedge of panettone. The Radio 4 announcer is giving us the annual historical background to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols, which began in 1918. Then, silence but for a brief, almost imperceptible cue from the organ. I hold my breath and strain my ear. Will the treble hit the first syllable, “Once in Royal David’s City” with confidence? Will he make it through the rest of the opening verse without faltering?
“… her little child.”
Good lad. He did it.
I picture the darkening stained glass windows of King’s Chapel, where I have spent many an evening, and many a Christmas Eve, the flickering candle flames dancing on the faces of the choral scholars, the attentive frowns of the little boys, all eyes on conductor Stephen Cleobury. The multicoloured sound of men’s and boys’ voices weaving through the air, rising up to the fan vaulting.
Outside my window, the setting sun splashes a lake of fiery gold behind the black outline of the rooftops. Within seconds, the gold has mutated into brush strokes of rose and apricot that spread across the sky. On the black shape of the tree, in the garden, the inky silhouettes of two crows. They await the signal. 
As the sky darkens, they fly away, past the rooftops. Once a year, on Christmas Eve, they are freed from the corvine bodies they inhabit the rest of the year. The first crow turns into a handsome man with the proud looks of the Caucasus, and an aquiline nose. He sings with a velvet voice, and dances with passion and grace. The second crows is transformed into a woman so beautiful, no fairy tale can illustrate, nor pen describe. Her eyes burn bright, like sun rays on obsidian. She is a storyteller, and her tales bewitch all who listen.
There is no sign of the squirrels. They, too, on Christmas Eve, turn into histrionic acrobats and spend the night feasting and leaping over a bonfire.
Night has thrown her cloak over London. I pour myself a glass of mead. The crows and squirrels will be tired after a whole night of revelry. I must go to the park, in the morning, and take them some Christmas breakfast. Perhaps a wedge of panettone.
In the unlikely event you are reading this on 25th December, then I wish you a Merry, Happy, Cosy and Fun Christmas.
© Scribe Doll
You’ve just had a major disappointment, heartbreak or mishap; or you’re just having a bad time. You’re feeling low, sad, upset or angry. Whatever the reason, you’re basically in a lousy place, from which the view is – begging your pardon – crap. You need a friendly ear, so you decide to blow off steam to a friend. Your friend responds as follows:
“Oh, well, never mind”
How dare they belittle the magnitude of your woe or even the magnitude – even if slightly disproportionate – of your reaction to it?
“C’est la vie”
What’s with the sudden French? Unless you’re Cary Grant addressing Deborah Kerr, chances are, you cannot pull this one off. And even Cary Grant added “etc.” at the end of the remark, to send up the platitude of it.
“That’s life”
No kidding. So glad you’ve told me, since I come from a different planet. No, it doesn’t work in English, either, sorry.
“Aww… Would you like a cup of tea?”
Contrary to this three hundred year-old British belief, tea does not help. A glass of Baileys, on the other hand…
“Oh, sorry to hear that. By the way – did I tell you? – I’ve just bought a Picasso”
… And why is this supposed to make me feel better? Oh! Were you going to give the Picasso or – even better – its proceeds to me?
“How awful! The same thing happened to me… (follows an account the length of James Joyce’s Ulysses)
I don’t want to hear your story. I want to talk about me!
“It’s a lot worse for some people”
At this moment I am the most important person on this planet and my problem is the worst in this solar system.
“Don’t worry, you’ll get over it. You never know what’s just around the corner…”
You’re a psychic, now?
“Why don’t you ask so-and-so? Perhaps s/he can help you”
How generous of you to volunteer someone else’s help. Or is this an exercise in delegating?
“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think”
Now, you’re doubting my judgement, on top of everything else?
… And the prize goes to:
“It could be worse”
Aaaaaaaaaargh!!!!!!!!!!
Just pass the jar of Nutella, and a teaspoon. No, it doesn’t help the situation. But it is comforting. Yum!
© Scribe Doll
Scribe Doll 