languages

I’m seeing a lot of smelling pistakes in Africa, many of which hilarious me. ‘We are sory but your fury friends are not aloud in our cafe.’ Thank goodnes for that, thought I. Fury friends, silent or aloud, are not easy company over coffee on a sunshine morning. Another reads ‘WARNING! Fasten bra straps and remove dentures. Very bumpy road.’ A third, outside a guest house ‘ Wanted – Guests to sleep with us. Thrid one free.’ There are so many of these misspelled, or just quirky, invitations, restrictions and warnings that to find one which makes sense, makes no sense at all. And it thinks me.

Back in the day when Great Britain owned half the world, doing nobody much good in the end, language and its correct usage was of great importance, any incorrectness tantamount to treason. Now, with the flow of peoples across the world, very little of which is ‘owned’ by foreigners, great or otherwise, language is learning to tango, to flex, to shift in construction, tense and meaning. Adverbs fly about the sentence, pronouns plural and twist, and everything from an ice cream to the discovery of a new star is ‘Amazing’. I am glad of it, having been made to stand in the corner for mispronouncing or misspelling or misconstructing my language enough times to wish me I spoke ‘monkey’ instead. I. learned that instead of listening to what I was saying, they were listening to how I phrased it. If I sounded like a young Princess Elizabeth, no matter that there was no flex, no tango, no music in my rendition of whatever poem or piece of literature I was outlouding to the class, I gained a star and a smile and a well done. One girl, Henrietta, O Du’Banjo, daughter of an African king, cried her eyes out after many stern corrections and it furied me. Her voice was her language, her phrasing that of her people, and this English teacher was endeavouring to dilute it. All wrong.

In South Africa, if I were to announce I was expecting twins, which I obviously am not, the delighted response would be ‘Is it? Oh Shame!’ I can just see my English teacher faint clean away at that. Admittedly, it makes no sense to me either, but that’s not the point. How they say what they say out here is how they say what they say and grammar be blowed. However, and there’s always one of those, I adore the English Language, am a committed student keen, always curious, delighted at the discovery of a new but ancient word, fascinated and excited by everything about it. My language is my work and my passion. But that is for me and not for everyone, nor anyone else who doesn’t enjoy it as I do. I read the wrong there,they’re,their and snort, I do, I admit it, but if someone (most people, actually) misuse the there/their/they’re in a sentence, I still know what they are saying, and anything beyond a private snort would be judgement, and on a person. So not my thing.

My granddaughter once announced, confidently to me ‘ Granny, I love dogs cos they don’t.’

I heartily agree.

Okay so I fell out with my almost new mixer. To be completely honest, it was mutual dislike at first sight. You see, before this alien arrived in the tanned arms of Dennis the Delivery Boy, who left boyhood a wee whiley back, only nobody wanted to upset him by saying so, I had an old Magimix. It had worked for the dangerous granny for years, even had a customised red gingham skirty drape made to pretty it up on the kitchen counter, and, for the life of me, I cannot think why I moved it on at all. It was still working fine when I did, which makes it even more dreadful. I generally never move things on at all. They fall apart right here on my patch and are flung in the bucket, unless there are some attractive parts that might serve as bird scarers or dingle dangles for my mobile collection. On the rare occasions I have moved something on, it would have been something I no longer, nor ever would again, need – such as 8 inch platform PVC boots or tooth whitener (way too late), or perhaps a box for buttons marked Buttons which I never unwrapped, being an olympian button owner and requiring a school trunk at the very least for my supply.

This mixer and I growled at each other a lot. I even resented the fat smug way it’s oversized bottom took up way more room than it needed forcing me to squash up my vitamin collection, spice and herb racks and the butter dish which now doesn’t stay in line at all, jutting out like a naughty dinghy in a race line up. Every time I walked past this disorder I felt cross. I did try to make peace, at first, but the flaming bowl would never assemble without making a HUGE fuss and resisting any connecting with the launch pad. ‘The motor will not work unless the bowl is fitted correctly.’ I know this. I know this a LOT! Finally we make some sense and the damn thing is correctly fitted and I am moderate to fair backing gale force 8 but, nonetheless, we are running and although very little is moving beyond the slicing blade, I am confident we will become friends one day, or, at the least, unhappy colleagues.

At least ten times, during what was a quick whizz in dangerous granny’s magimix, I must twist off the lid and free up the glued on cake mix from the sides. Ten times I fit the bowl incorrectly, twist on the lid, turn the knob into a long silence (all the way up to 6), turn it back, twist off the lid and fit the bowl….well, let’s say eventually I get it right. By the time I have added the eggs, and flour and gone through the whole gluey infuriating process again I have gone right off baking. As the cake rises (probably in a temper) in the oven I wash up 37 pieces of a mixer I loathe with all my heart and re-connect it with its large bottom, cussing like an old fishwife.

After a reasonable cooling off period I try again. Cake tins are empty throughout the land and folks are beginning to revolt. Well, himself is, anyway. I begin. Nothing has changed. This mixer has no shame. Half way through the dreadful process the motor dies. No correct fitting tactics work. I am apre eggs and pre flour. In other words, a sloppy curdled mess. I make a decision. Tipping and scraping out the yellow goo into a big bowl I march the offending mixer out to the wheelie bin and throw it in with all my strength. I then march back to collect all the attachments, the dough hook, the meringue beater, the juice extractor, the julienne, if you don’t mind, plus all other disks and the instruction pamphlet in 17 languages, none of them English, and throw them in too. Feels fantastic.

My next attempt at cake making, is ably assisted by my lovely neigbour who lends me his super duper Kenwood. It purrs along, sounding quite in control and not minding much about being fitted incorrectly at all. I turn the speed up just a tad, turn my back and turn it back again mighty quick at the flash, the crash and the smoke pouring from the motor casing. Not only have I blown up my lovely neighbour’s super duper Kenwood, but I am, once again, half way through a cake. I will have to make amends for this expensive disaster I know, at some point, but, for now, I must carry on regardless and not give up, however tempting that may sound. I select a large glass bowl, pour in the mix, grab my wooden spoon, flex my muscles (I kind of remember where they used to be) and begin to beat. It’s flipping hard work, by the way and to think our grannies had no choice! After one bout of fast battering, the bowl falls neatly in half, the falling half landing squarely on my bare toes and spewing floury contents all across the kitchen carpet. (Never go for kitchen carpet. It’s got to be lino every time).

Now this is me – undaunted by such ghastlies. I scoop the carpet-flavoured cake mix into a plastic bowl this time, adding the rest and beat on, quite admiring the red flecks of carpet and inspired to add cherries and almond essence for the hell of it. It can hardly rise, this unfortunate. It doesn’t, well, it does for a while, then sinks like it’s worn out putting on a face. They said it tasted weird, but none was left over at the end.

My lovely neighbour was most understanding, albeit sad to think of a cake-less future. I, for one am happy my cake-baking days are over, for I will not beat by hand again, and nor will I spend a fortune on a load of futuristic rubbish that makes a huge stooshie out of everything it does, or doesn’t do, and then dies when it feels like it which is just after you’ve thrown away the packaging and receipt.

Oh Granny (that’s my granny, not the dangerous one), how I wish I had never ‘moved on’ your lovely wedding gift of a Kenwood Chef with it’s clundering attachments, big sturdy bowl and great attitude!

Does anyone have it?