If the English language made any sense, a catastrophe would be an apostrophe with fur. – Doug Larson.
My feelings for the English language are mixed; I love reading a good book, I adore silly palindromes, and I get very emotional reactions to some lyrics and poetry. I am emphatic about the use of consonants and correct grammar in speaking, yet nonchalant when it comes to spelling. Yes – spelling mistakes made increasingly on public documents irritate me, but really, does it make that much difference if I decide to spell becose that way? You still know what I have just written – and here’s why…
Aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
The relevance in all this is that I taught my first ever English lesson today – which for a dyslexic teacher is quite a success I feel! I was petrified, although I am not sure what of as most of the class know that I am dyslexic and half share my problems with memory and words.
We were doing adjectives, (describing words for those of you who have burned the braincells you used in English lessons). We used animal poems, created by my fair hand of course, I removed all of the adjectives I had put in and instructed them to find their own… here’s an example of what they came up with…
Here is a drunk duck.
By a smelly lake he sits.
He nibbles mouldy bread,
And other yucky bits.
Contrary to my fears, the lesson went really well. A highlight to an otherwise “report card” filled day.
A member of my tutor group was found sitting on the front wall of a stranger’s house during the school day yesterday. The owner rang the school to report this strange incident, which resulted in our onsite policeman zooming out of school to accost the young man. As Mr Policeman screeched to a halt outside the house and stopped traffic with a swift wave of his arm and a tip of his policeman’s cap, the youth in question turned a shade of red and swiftly turned off his gift from Santa. It conspired that he was trying to use the strangers commodity of a wireless connection to access the internet, not, I hasten to add, to complete his over-due coursework.
The picture today is of Truffle, the oldest moggie. She was the runt of the litter and obtained from a rather dubious house in “Taylorstown” South Wales. When we took her to the vet he informed us that she was not only riddled with fleas and worms, she was also, at the oldest, only four weeks old. At the time we were told that her life expectancy was rather short, advised to keep a close eye on her and administer regular doses of TLC.
As a kitten she was quite playful, but wary of new people, loud noises and spent much of her time cowered in a corner or under the bed. By a year old she hated me, still loved Tristan, but lothed me! I was more than often covered in the scars of biting teeth and scratching claws.
After a program advised by a veterinary science student in Aberystwyth, involving inordinate amounts of “Felix Likins” and the advent of her much loved (at the time) step brother Charlie, she became much more sociable, loveable, and in recent years even cuddly.
She is still a little cat, but a remarkably female one. Not only does she have a very feminine look about her, she has turned into a complete slapper around male visitors to the house, in particular my Dad, who is now a self-confessed Truffle fan!
Not only does the English Language borrow words from other languages, it sometimes chases them down dark alleys, hits them over the head, and goes through their pockets. – Eddy Peters
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