Plenty more clichés in the English language

Dear Mum,

I have been somewhat hesitant about writing this blog but the recent break-up has offered food for thought.

They say ‘write about what you know’. Who this body of advisors is I do not know, but its counsel has developed into a bit of a literary cliché, a rule my blog’s content follows ‘down to a tee.’

And this is precisely what this particular blog is about. Language.

I’m not here to air my dirty laundry.

This blog is instead about the language we use in response to a break-up or shaky relationship – something I feel could do with revision.

Post-break-up, I followed my instinct, as any daughter would, by snivelling down the phone to you, before sending a round robin text to my girlfriends and gay friends confessing the day’s upsetting events.

This slightly cowardly act meant I avoided the emotionally fraught experience of numerous face-to-face briefings. I have had so many lovely words in response to this SMS update and some equally disappointing ones.

After questioning my growing sense of sadness I realised these idioms and expressions of comfort are, in a nutshell, a load of tripe. They struck a chord – but not a good one.

All that follows was kindly meant and no offence is meant to anyone who recited these expressions. I myself am guilty of having used them before in a variety of social situations.

I begin with the inspiration to the title of this blog; “there are plenty more fish in the sea...”

Generally speaking, individuals who have recently suffered a break-up will be feeling a) miserable and missing their boyfriend/girlfriend (delete as appropriate) terribly or b) miserable and wanting an extended break from men/women (delete as appropriate).

The prospect of their being more bait out there is thus, generally, not reassuring or consoling. One either convulses at the thought of being romantically involved with someone other than the person one has split from, or convulses at the prospect of their being a wealth of the opposite sex looming out there.  

Secondly: “Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all”. It is fair enough to tell someone this a year after their break-up but it is not wise when they’re surrounded by countless Wispa wrappers and used tissues. In this scenario, this phrase is about as comforting as glimpsing the bottom of a vodka bottle i.e. not comforting at all, but rather another reason to well up. 

Thirdly: “It obviously wasn’t meant to be”. This phrase is used in countless situations, including break-ups, failed job applications, cancelled holiday flights and lost competitions. If ‘it’ wasn’t meant to be, why did life throw ‘it’ into one’s path and why did one invest such time and emotion into ‘it?’

Fourthly: “Time will heal”. Excellent. Now I know I’ll be feeling like s**t for month. Thanks for this.

Fifthly: “You’ll never forget your first love”. Same as the above.  But years rather than months.

Consider this blog a petition for a ban on these expressions. Let’s rethink our use of language and come up with something genuine. Like Dad’s gem of wisdom:  “Life is pretty s**t and so people can be pretty s**t.’

Honest, forthright and not dressed in imagery or metaphors, these words were of great solace. 

Don’t stop till you get enough

Dear Mum,

Your daughter has an addiction. A time-consuming, merciless compulsion.

To complete crosswords.

I was introduced to the cryptic word puzzle at work. My internship colleagues start a crossword at lunchtime and hope to have completed it, often with some help from others, by the end of that day.

In an attempt to bond with them, and score a few brownie points along the way, I have endeavoured to decode the odd clue. My moment of glory was 16 across; ‘Shakespearean heroine,’ 6 letters... Portia?

Ding Ding Ding!!

Aware that this single and slightly nerdy contribution might not earn me the abundance of friends I hope for, I have taken to the morning paper with a never before experienced enthusiasm for word games.

Seemingly innocent but now I cannot stop.

I’m sure this is a relief to you. Your daughter, knowingly feeling a tad vulnerable being unemployed and recently single, is addicted to puzzles, which is far preferable to illicit substances and online gambling sites.

This new relationship is not, however, healthy.

The torn out crossword and I go everywhere together. Bleary eyed on the train of a morning, snuggled up in front of the sofa, brushing my teeth in the evening. Always balanced on my knee and receiving my greedy glances, like my filthy secret.

I am unable to concentrate on my friends’ conversation as my mind is really thinking “3 down = ‘praise or honour,’ 5 letters...?

I am preoccupied by achievable yet elusive clues, meaning I don’t realise that it has started to rain and my umbrella lies redundant in my bag.

Yesterday, Dad and I discussed FIFA’s choice to allow the England team to wear poppies in their match against Spain. Dad was puzzled when I ‘casually’ interrupted the tête-à-tête to ask “Can you think of any south eastern Spanish cities, six letters long, ending with an ‘A’?”

This newfangled relationship not only consumes my time but toys with my emotions.

I fume at the crossword’s way of keeping me guessing with its vague clues, that it’s me alone that puts the hard work in, that the crossword does not appear to recognise or react to my emotional condition.

Yet I cannot resist going back to it and putting myself through the emotions once more.

I think I need a bit of a break. After all, there are plenty more puzzles in the sea – Sudoku, Codeword and Clockword to name but a few. 

Comfort Stop

Dear Mum,

I recently interrupted a five hour car journey to stop at a service station. It was here that I experienced Heston Blumenthal’s redesigned Little Chef at Popham.

In actual fact, I passed through the restaurant in aid of a toilet break due to several pre-journey cups of tea.  

It is a truth universally acknowledged that no roadside facility is going to offer a memorably pleasant toilet stop.

But this was certainly memorable.

It was all pretty clean and had clearly been refurbished complete with mock cloudy-sky ceiling tiles. As I queued I gazed amusedly up at these tiles before being awoken from my trance to ask my companion, “was that a sheep?”

Yes it was. Various farmyard animals and birdsong were played on a constant loop.

The sound of sheep bleating does not inspire my bladder to perform and these sounds are not what I understand the term “nature calls” to mean. They instead reminded me of my childhood, when a quick nip behind a bush during a family walk was acceptable but the sense of mortification and panic was no less prominent.

Upon venturing into a cubicle at the Little Chef a bird apparently flying over my head gave me stage fright. I half anticipated a voice to say “Get off my land!” causing me to flee from the toilets altogether.

Whilst this experience defied my idea of a comfort break, as I felt distinctly uncomfortable, it was reassuring that the toilet was new and clean.

During my student years, however, friends and I experienced some nauseating toilets.

On one such occasion Lana and I, plus two inebriated housemates, ventured into a fast-food restaurant at 2am to satisfy our housemates’ yells of “We need chicken!” Lana ventured into the depths of the seedy vicinity in need of the toilet. When she re-appeared she walked purposefully toward us, ashen faced.

“I think it would’ve been more hygienic if I’d wet myself.”

The mind boggles.

I think perhaps the worst aspect of public-toilet going, however, is the awkwardness. Everyone is there to accomplish something that we all have in common and is only natural, yet it is still embarrassing and not open to much discussion.

I can only imagine for men that it must provide some dire situations. For the ladies, and particularly English ones, it is the etiquette of queuing that causes controversy and unease.

Despite being in close circumstances, one can never find the correct words. One day, I learned that it is best to simply keep schtum.

On said day I sauntered into a cubicle, retreated after glimpsing that which festered in the toilet bowl and so continued to another cubicle.

Thirty seconds later, when washing my hands, I witnessed a lady repeat the exact same action; enter, recoil, exit.

I thought it would be a comfort to her that I remark “I did that.” It was her second recoil that made me realise the implication of my remark. S**t. 

Do they know it’s Christmas time... in November?

Dear Mum,

It was a joy to spend Halloween at home.  I was very touched that my previous blog did not fall on deaf ears as my trick or treating duties were adopted by Dad.

Who, I think, was a whole lot better at it than I was. And I’m not just saying that.

For example, after answering the door and cheerily exclaiming, “Well, you all look very scary. Well done, you all deserve a treat,” he did not proceed to slam the door and mutter “stupid Halloween” as is my habit.

All in all, a much better ambassador for Halloween than myself.

And, please note, I did try to throw myself into the spirit of things. I assisted in your candlelit display on the front porch.

And it is for this very reason I’m sorry that the doorbell only rang twice. Whilst it made for a pleasant, undisturbed evening, it was a shame more children weren’t able to admire the spectacle.

I am also sorry that, whilst enjoying your company and home comforts, I paid a visit to Chunder Town. Or, more specifically, several visits.

I’m sorry that the piercing echoes of my retching kept you awake and that, from thereon, I turned my nose up at any food other than toast and crackers.

(Note to self: don’t eat all of the trick or treating sweets out of sympathy for your disappointed mother).

The good news is Halloween is done and dusted.

The bad news is supermarkets are stacking their shelves with mince pies. A chilling reminder of the mutability of time.

This marketing choice of retailers evokes anger in the vast majority of our society.

It finds it confusing and unsettling to hear the trills of “Santa Claus is coming to town” as one meanders around a department store in October.

I think I am alone, however, in having no objection to retailers introducing Christmas decorations and gifts in Autumn.

Being surrounded by festive items now means one can eye up Christmas presents, mull them over and purchase them before the mad rush of December, when Christmas present shopping is just as stressful, undignified and uncomfortable as heaving Haribo Halloween mix into a toilet bowl.

Furthermore, stocks are high earlier in the season, not battered from rigorous manhandling and one has the luxury of seeking out the best deals.

Plus, I just like Christmas.

I like the fact it brings family and friends together to share in its many traditions. I like the fact it offers a wealth of happy memories.

Seeing Christmas trees now reminds me of this season of goodwill and makes me think of my nearest and dearest.

Although I do draw the line at eating mince pies. I have some standards. 

Trick or Treat? Definitely not a treat...

Dear Mum,

With Gaddafi dead and protestors still camped outside St. Paul’s, I feel that I need to voice my own rebellious attitudes.

My unhappy topic is that dreaded time of year. Halloween. I know you feel the same way that I do, Mum.

It’s about as appealing as Sir Brucie on Saturday night primetime – a bit of a nuisance that one could generally do without.

Perhaps if our nation went the whole hog and embraced it as the US does then you and I would feel differently.

But we Brits sit more on the fence. A token carved pumpkin might be positioned on the doorstep and perhaps a witch’s hat is donned when greeting trick or treaters.

This is really where my issue lies.

I was always on trick or treater duty in our house because I was the youngest (though I’m still unsure as to why this fact justifies it being my duty).

This is fundamentally why I dislike Halloween.

I hasten to add that I have no problem with children. It is rather the ideology, the conventions and immorality of the holiday and custom of trick or treating.

For example, a six-year old dressed as a grotesque and unrecognisable monster, with a mask stained with mock blood and a plastic machete in hand, is not what I want to open my front door to.

Equally, I think a witch’s outfit is predictable and dull. Why not be original and dress your child as Ben from Outnumbered this Halloween? I’d find that pretty unnerving. 

I also resent that the vast proportion of trick or treaters seem to be over 15 years of age.

My idea of a pleasant Autumn evening doesn’t involve boosting the sugar levels of a spotty, bearded adolescent dressed as the grim reaper.

More importantly, however, I resent that these are strangers requesting that you place sugary snack in their hands.

I’ll go months without speaking to my neighbours. But 31^st October arrives and the neighbourhood comes knocking at your door.  

And these strangers are judgemental. There is a spectrum of trick or treating snacks, which guarantees a specific reaction depending on the snack’s ranking.

An apple, for example, will gain you an egged house. A KitKat will receive an ‘are you kidding?’ look. A mini mars bar a polite “thank you”. A mini packet of Halloween Haribo will be rewarded with a toothless grin.

Last year, at uni, my housemates and I forgot to buy treats. We fobbed the children off with some cheery bakewell tarts that has passed their sell-by dates before turning off all the lights and pretending we weren’t in.

But even if you pretend to have gone out, you can’t relax on Halloween night. The doorbell is constantly hammered by new trick or treaters and those doubting your absence.

If you do partake in the festivity, the minute you abandon the basket of sweets and lower your bottom to the sofa it is guaranteed the sodding door bell will ring again.

And, damn, you’ve run out of chocolate. The last group were disgusted enough by the Penguins you gave them, what else can you turn to?

Which is where, Mum, you should go down in Halloween history.

Placing a handful of honey roasted nuts, which we ourselves thought tasted somewhat unusual, in individual plastic bags and passing them off as ‘bats’ droppings’ is genius.

That evening, I did rather enjoy greeting the trick or treaters.

Changing my ways

Dear Mum,

Times are hard in the graduate world. I’m a statistic that you will have read in the paper and poor to boot.  

As a result, I cannot spend money unless necessary. Full stop. Lock my credit card away. Don’t let me glimpse a Zara.

I’m trying to come up with new, cheap ways to spend my free time.

So I am reading voraciously, something I wasn’t able to do during my degree. Ironic, as I read English Literature at university.

One of Kate’s friends, who graduated with a degree in English the summer before I started, warned me that I would not be able to read for pleasure for the next three years.

I didn’t believe her and naively packed a box of novels alongside the books listed on my course reading list.

I haven’t touched Margaret Atwood’s ‘The Blind Assassin’ since Fresher’s Week. I will read it soon but, somehow, I cannot bring myself to pick it up. It’s like a time capsule, marked with the point at which I abandoned it for a night out, and I don’t yet feel ready to return to that point in my past.

I have, however, thoroughly enjoyed ‘The Help,’ ‘The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas,’ ‘The Crimson Petal and the White’, ‘One Day’ and other such bestsellers since I modelled my mortar board.  

As much as I love to read, however, I want to be seeing some human life and so, this weekend, I ventured to Tate Britain.

We’re very lucky to have numerous free galleries and museums.

But it is equally quite right that they are free. Art is meant to be looked at. Unlike a book, a painting or sculpture doesn’t require a length of time to be invested, nor the same form of concentration, nor any level of literacy.

But, still, I felt a real sense of self-satisfaction that I was able to admire such fabulous artworks, by Burne-Jones, Turner and Van Dyke, for no cost.

I was, however, somewhat deterred by some of the modern art. Perhaps I am narrow-minded and a stuffy traditionalist, but a few tea trays on wheels arranged on the floor is not what I call art.

It’s what I’d call a health and safety issue. The proof being that a guard grabbed my arm to prevent me from tripping over one of these trays as I distractedly gawped in horror at some debauched photography.

I like my art in painting form, where things are recognisable, in colour and, basically, pretty.

This, when I thought about it, as I returned to a Rossetti painting, is a little unfair on modern art.

I was required to study a wide variety of novels in my degree, including modern texts that denied the traditionalism of Dickens. I did not gel with all of these novels but I did always accept them for what they were; literature, in all its varied glory. Similarly, visual art is just as diverse.

Confused, shattered, pensive, I went for a coffee and big cake to mull over these internal thoughts. I should say I bought a coffee and big cake.

Oops, I did it again...

Handling my irritation

Dear Mum,

On several occasions of late, when making an online purchase, I have come across this novel idea of a ‘handling fee.’  

Yesterday, for example, it was Pippa’s 22^nd birthday and so I ordered some flowers to be sent to her university digs.

(I think, in actual fact, it was Lucinda, my middle-class alter-ego, who chose this as a gift. It does seem peculiar to send flowers to a home in which its residents are barely looking after themselves, with the quantities of alcohol they consume and lack of sleep they get, let alone the capability to look after another living thing. Sadly, the plant that you nurtured the summer before I started university perished at the close of my Fresher’s Week as I instead pursued my new-found independence. I fear Pippa’s lilies might meet a similar fate. But I digress...).

I selected the bouquet, wrote the accompanying message and entered the delivery details.

Upon selecting my credit card brand I was confused by the £1 “handling fee.”

This could not have been correct; the card was in my hand, after all. Surely they had made a mistake?

Yet the order could not be completed without paying this handling fee. What, precisely, did the people receiving my order have to handle?

After all, it was me alone who turned on my computer, typed in the website’s URL and chose which product I wanted to buy with my credit card. How were the credit card company involved in either the decision making or physical process?

‘Handling fee’ simply does not make sense. I would prefer such a charge to instead be named the “any excuse to get more money out of you fee” or the “you’re a chump charge”.

And while I’m on the topic of commercial lingo I’d like to point out that it is not necessary for breakfast cereal brands to include the phrase “serving suggestion” on the face of their packaging, next to the image of a bowl of their product.

After decades of stabbing at a bag of breakfast cereal with a fork, society has finally grasped an easier and less frustrating way for cereal to be enjoyed. An image of the preferred bowl and milk carton is adequate, but please ditch the patronising ‘suggestion.’

As for a certain pizza delivery company, they need to rethink the wording of the voucher card they post through my door every other day. By all means, “Save up to £250” is just fine, but the subsequent “depending on usage” is an excessive use of language that states the bleeding obvious.

If only this candour would instead be adopted by those insisting upon a handling fee...