Growing up in New Zealand, I was taught a language we called English. I assumed, then, that when I came to England (where English is from, if the rumours are true) they would speak the same language. They don't.
Some of the words are the same but the meanings of many of the words are different.
In New Zealand the most common greeting is hello or, colloquialy, g'day … or the longer version which is g'day mate. In England, when people meet they usually say sorry, which is the most uttered word in Britain, where they're continually apologising for themselves. I'm not sure why as they're generally really nice people.
Another confusing word is free. If something is free in New Zealand it doesn't cost anything - zilch, nada, nuttin'. In England, free has several meanings.
At the National Health Service it means free as we Kiwis understand it - it costs nothing. I recently had an eye operation - the three consultations and the operation cost me zilch, nada and nuttin'.
Some businesses, however, have a different meaning for free - they have cruddy products they cannot sell and so they rename the cost bit and call it free. Let me explain: they may have a product priced at £15 and they cannot sell it, even with free freight. So what they do is make the product free, triple the usual freight charge of £5 and people think it's wonderful, suddenly! In this case, free means: "We think you're really quite stupid and will think you're getting a bargain by paying the same if we can blame the postal or courier service for their exorbitant charges."
As Richard Wilson, English actor (you may remember him as the grumpy old man in One Foot In The Grave) recently discovered, some rail companies advertise £8 fares but they're never actually available to anyone at any time. Airlines and hotels do the same - advertise ludicrously low prices that are available to nobody, nowhere, never.
I even came across a commercial printer down south (I think it was Bournemouth) who proudly announced on his website that I could get his advertising brochure completely free (there's that word again) … but the postage would be £5.49! He wanted me to pay him to send me his advertising bumph. I don't think so!
I'm currently lecturing at a university in Oxfordshire to Indian and Bangladeshi students. I have trouble with English as she is spoke in this fair isle - imagine the trouble they have!
So sorry, free and cheap have quite different meanings over here and it surprises me that English is becoming the lingua franca of the world. In fact, there are now more people who speak English as their second language than those who are native English speakers. This trend will, I suspect, make communication more difficult and confusing for the people of Mother Earth. Sorry!
So, how's Arthur's communication under duress? His story is continued from the previous blog ...
"I'll go last," said Arthur, feeling gallant and scared.
As the Fearsome Five (or is that the Fearful Five?) trundled up the corridor, going as fast as they could without bumping into antique dressers or each other, Arthur suddenly stopped. He fancied he heard a noise, somewhere. The fear was growing in his mind much faster, he knew, than it would have in the mind of Mr Bond. But knowing that didn't help one bit.
"Come on Arthur!" whispered Dottie urgently, motioning him on. "No time for wavering now!"
"Yes, yes," said Arthur, knowing her logic but, illogically, his body wanted to stay rooted to the spot to see who was coming. Was seeing the unknown person scarier than not knowing? He could not decide.
"Arthur!" demanded Dottie, grabbing his arm. "Get a grip. Come on!"
"Uh, yes, yes," said Arthur, forcing his legs to move again.
"Stop right there!" someone bellowed from round a corner, twenty feet away, just as Arthur was turning into the alcove leading to the kitchen. He froze at the corner and could see the others through the kitchen doorway, frantically motioning him in. He couldn't do it. Someone had nailed his feet to the floor. He just couldn't move.
"Where do you think you're going?" demanded the angry, gravelly voice, closer this time. The voice sounded strangely like his father's and memories flooded back. He knew his father would grab him by the collar, drag him into the scullery and give him yet another beating, from which it might take days for the pain to go. He whimpered and felt helpless, humiliated.
"Arthur, love, hurry up!" whispered Joan from the kitchen.
He didn't know if it was Joan's voice or the word love but his mind snapped out of the Newcastle coalminer's cottage of his childhood and returned to Lord Atkinson's stately home, forty years later. His feet became unstuck and he could have dived into the kitchen but the voice, which he now dared to look at, was only ten yards from him. He couldn't escape to the kitchen without endangering the others. He straightened his body and his mind.
"I, Sir, am here to help Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, in his best Bond voice. It all felt most unreal. "And thank you for alerting me to where you are holding him." He marched towards the man of the voice - slightly shorter than Arthur but twice as wide with a paunch, grey grizzly hair and thick grey eyebrows.
"Stop right there!" said the man, not lowering his voice. "You're not going anywhere."
"I am going to see Lord Atkinson right now," said Arthur, sounding more confident than he felt. He focused on his goal and took a bold step forward.
"Stop right there, schmuck!" said the man, hesitating, wrapping his eyebrows round his nose.
"I am sorry, sir, but I am here to do what I need to do, not what you tell me," said Arthur, feeling like a robot. The man put his palm against Arthur's chest, blocking his way. "Unhand me, whoever you are, or I shall be forced to call the others in." Arthur put his hand into his pocket as if fingering a dangerous device and not the mobile phone he felt.
"What others?" asked the man, his bellow having fallen to a menacing question.
"Force me to push this button and you shall find out soon enough," said Arthur, without expression. "Now let me pass." His phone beeped as he accidentally pushed one of the phone's buttons and both of them jumped.
"No, no, mate, let's just talk about this, huh?" suggested the rock of a man, recovering quicker than Arthur. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?"
"I should ask you that, sir," said Arthur, attempting to take a step forward. "But I don't actually care. We're here to help Lord Atkinson and that's what we shall do."
"We? Who's this we, mate?" Asked the man, his hand still on Arthur's chest but with less force now.
"If I push this button now you will soon discover who we are," suggested Arthur with more nerve than he felt. There was a crash in the kitchen, followed by a bugger and the man-rock stepped back a little. "Looks like they're on their way. Now let me pass."
"Like hell you do!" said the man, obviously making a decision. "I got you and we'll get the others one by one, later, huh." He grabbed Arthur by the collar and all those shaming memories of childhood flooded back. His body became as a small boy's, in the power of his ferocious father and he stumbled along behind the man as they headed down the corridor.
In the lives of most of us there is a moment (or several moments for the particularly brave ones) when we actually dare to do what we've always dreamed of doing, but have previously held ourselves back from. This was one of Arthur's moments.
During the many unexpected and painful times Arthur's father dragged him down the hall to the scullery to take his rage out on his son, Arthur fantasised about revenge. He imagined, most often, of tripping his father up and then either pouncing on him or running away … forever. This fantasy consumed much of his young life and, in his mind, he tried countless ways of foiling his father and, eventually, dreamed the perfect technique - one that required little strength and caused maximum mayhem. His fertile mind imagined great and simple success but he never had the nerve to try it. Till now.
As this rock of a man dragged him down the hall, stumbling to keep up, his mind flashed back to the countless times he berated himself for not getting back at his father and, as his anger rose, and his technique came to mind, he acted. As the man's right foot went forward, Arthur tapped his left foot to the right and the man fell flat on his face, taking a Grecian vase and an oak hat-stand down with him, with a noisy clatter of breaking pottery and timber. Arthur had always imagined his father letting go at this stage but the man didn't and Arthur fell too. The feelings from years of humiliation, long suppressed, now burst out and Arthur fell, purposely, heavily on top of the stone-man. He rammed his forearm into the brute's neck. The man let go to protect himself and Arthur leapt up and kicked him in the side with the strength that fifty years of pent-up rage could muster. He kicked and he kicked and he kicked till his strength ran out. He leaned back against the wall exhausted, strangely happy and quite disgusted with himself. The man lay still, with shards of pottery and furniture around him.
Some of the words are the same but the meanings of many of the words are different.
In New Zealand the most common greeting is hello or, colloquialy, g'day … or the longer version which is g'day mate. In England, when people meet they usually say sorry, which is the most uttered word in Britain, where they're continually apologising for themselves. I'm not sure why as they're generally really nice people.
Another confusing word is free. If something is free in New Zealand it doesn't cost anything - zilch, nada, nuttin'. In England, free has several meanings.
At the National Health Service it means free as we Kiwis understand it - it costs nothing. I recently had an eye operation - the three consultations and the operation cost me zilch, nada and nuttin'.
Some businesses, however, have a different meaning for free - they have cruddy products they cannot sell and so they rename the cost bit and call it free. Let me explain: they may have a product priced at £15 and they cannot sell it, even with free freight. So what they do is make the product free, triple the usual freight charge of £5 and people think it's wonderful, suddenly! In this case, free means: "We think you're really quite stupid and will think you're getting a bargain by paying the same if we can blame the postal or courier service for their exorbitant charges."
As Richard Wilson, English actor (you may remember him as the grumpy old man in One Foot In The Grave) recently discovered, some rail companies advertise £8 fares but they're never actually available to anyone at any time. Airlines and hotels do the same - advertise ludicrously low prices that are available to nobody, nowhere, never.
I even came across a commercial printer down south (I think it was Bournemouth) who proudly announced on his website that I could get his advertising brochure completely free (there's that word again) … but the postage would be £5.49! He wanted me to pay him to send me his advertising bumph. I don't think so!
I'm currently lecturing at a university in Oxfordshire to Indian and Bangladeshi students. I have trouble with English as she is spoke in this fair isle - imagine the trouble they have!
So sorry, free and cheap have quite different meanings over here and it surprises me that English is becoming the lingua franca of the world. In fact, there are now more people who speak English as their second language than those who are native English speakers. This trend will, I suspect, make communication more difficult and confusing for the people of Mother Earth. Sorry!
So, how's Arthur's communication under duress? His story is continued from the previous blog ...
"I'll go last," said Arthur, feeling gallant and scared.
As the Fearsome Five (or is that the Fearful Five?) trundled up the corridor, going as fast as they could without bumping into antique dressers or each other, Arthur suddenly stopped. He fancied he heard a noise, somewhere. The fear was growing in his mind much faster, he knew, than it would have in the mind of Mr Bond. But knowing that didn't help one bit.
"Come on Arthur!" whispered Dottie urgently, motioning him on. "No time for wavering now!"
"Yes, yes," said Arthur, knowing her logic but, illogically, his body wanted to stay rooted to the spot to see who was coming. Was seeing the unknown person scarier than not knowing? He could not decide.
"Arthur!" demanded Dottie, grabbing his arm. "Get a grip. Come on!"
"Uh, yes, yes," said Arthur, forcing his legs to move again.
"Stop right there!" someone bellowed from round a corner, twenty feet away, just as Arthur was turning into the alcove leading to the kitchen. He froze at the corner and could see the others through the kitchen doorway, frantically motioning him in. He couldn't do it. Someone had nailed his feet to the floor. He just couldn't move.
"Where do you think you're going?" demanded the angry, gravelly voice, closer this time. The voice sounded strangely like his father's and memories flooded back. He knew his father would grab him by the collar, drag him into the scullery and give him yet another beating, from which it might take days for the pain to go. He whimpered and felt helpless, humiliated.
"Arthur, love, hurry up!" whispered Joan from the kitchen.
He didn't know if it was Joan's voice or the word love but his mind snapped out of the Newcastle coalminer's cottage of his childhood and returned to Lord Atkinson's stately home, forty years later. His feet became unstuck and he could have dived into the kitchen but the voice, which he now dared to look at, was only ten yards from him. He couldn't escape to the kitchen without endangering the others. He straightened his body and his mind.
"I, Sir, am here to help Lord Atkinson," said Arthur, in his best Bond voice. It all felt most unreal. "And thank you for alerting me to where you are holding him." He marched towards the man of the voice - slightly shorter than Arthur but twice as wide with a paunch, grey grizzly hair and thick grey eyebrows.
"Stop right there!" said the man, not lowering his voice. "You're not going anywhere."
"I am going to see Lord Atkinson right now," said Arthur, sounding more confident than he felt. He focused on his goal and took a bold step forward.
"Stop right there, schmuck!" said the man, hesitating, wrapping his eyebrows round his nose.
"I am sorry, sir, but I am here to do what I need to do, not what you tell me," said Arthur, feeling like a robot. The man put his palm against Arthur's chest, blocking his way. "Unhand me, whoever you are, or I shall be forced to call the others in." Arthur put his hand into his pocket as if fingering a dangerous device and not the mobile phone he felt.
"What others?" asked the man, his bellow having fallen to a menacing question.
"Force me to push this button and you shall find out soon enough," said Arthur, without expression. "Now let me pass." His phone beeped as he accidentally pushed one of the phone's buttons and both of them jumped.
"No, no, mate, let's just talk about this, huh?" suggested the rock of a man, recovering quicker than Arthur. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?"
"I should ask you that, sir," said Arthur, attempting to take a step forward. "But I don't actually care. We're here to help Lord Atkinson and that's what we shall do."
"We? Who's this we, mate?" Asked the man, his hand still on Arthur's chest but with less force now.
"If I push this button now you will soon discover who we are," suggested Arthur with more nerve than he felt. There was a crash in the kitchen, followed by a bugger and the man-rock stepped back a little. "Looks like they're on their way. Now let me pass."
"Like hell you do!" said the man, obviously making a decision. "I got you and we'll get the others one by one, later, huh." He grabbed Arthur by the collar and all those shaming memories of childhood flooded back. His body became as a small boy's, in the power of his ferocious father and he stumbled along behind the man as they headed down the corridor.
In the lives of most of us there is a moment (or several moments for the particularly brave ones) when we actually dare to do what we've always dreamed of doing, but have previously held ourselves back from. This was one of Arthur's moments.
During the many unexpected and painful times Arthur's father dragged him down the hall to the scullery to take his rage out on his son, Arthur fantasised about revenge. He imagined, most often, of tripping his father up and then either pouncing on him or running away … forever. This fantasy consumed much of his young life and, in his mind, he tried countless ways of foiling his father and, eventually, dreamed the perfect technique - one that required little strength and caused maximum mayhem. His fertile mind imagined great and simple success but he never had the nerve to try it. Till now.
As this rock of a man dragged him down the hall, stumbling to keep up, his mind flashed back to the countless times he berated himself for not getting back at his father and, as his anger rose, and his technique came to mind, he acted. As the man's right foot went forward, Arthur tapped his left foot to the right and the man fell flat on his face, taking a Grecian vase and an oak hat-stand down with him, with a noisy clatter of breaking pottery and timber. Arthur had always imagined his father letting go at this stage but the man didn't and Arthur fell too. The feelings from years of humiliation, long suppressed, now burst out and Arthur fell, purposely, heavily on top of the stone-man. He rammed his forearm into the brute's neck. The man let go to protect himself and Arthur leapt up and kicked him in the side with the strength that fifty years of pent-up rage could muster. He kicked and he kicked and he kicked till his strength ran out. He leaned back against the wall exhausted, strangely happy and quite disgusted with himself. The man lay still, with shards of pottery and furniture around him.
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