Status Viatoris

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Chatting briefly to a friend’s mother on Skype over Christmas, I was the subject of an observation that hasn’t ever been levelled at me before: “I can’t believe how English you sound after so many years abroad.”

Well it is an undeniable fact that I am English – as opposed to US American, Scots, Kiwi, South African or other. But not only am I boring old English, I also speak my mother tongue with a total absence of any regional lilt: my pronunciation of the English language is probably as standard as it is possible to be.

Thus linguistically there is really nowhere to go and certainly no accent to lose…

But there is plenty to gain, or at least there would be if I moved to an English-speaking country or region with a vastly differing mode of parlance. In fact if ever I spend any time with those whose English differs from my own, I quickly and unconsciously begin to imitate their speech – perhaps another symptom of the desire to fit it through assimilation.

The point is, however, a moot one as for the last sixteen years I have primarily lived in non-English speaking countries. That is not to say that my English language skills haven’t been affected; far from it, I’m sorry to say.

I’m sure I’m not the only polyglot whose mother tongue spelling has deteriorated at an inversely proportionate rate to the amount of foreign vocabulary acquired. I frequently mourn the fact that I used to be an ace and intuitive speller – just saying a particularly tricky word out loud would enable me to jot it down correctly. Now I have to rely on the vagaries of spell-check to ensure I am not penning a load of bollocks – the different phonetic patterns one is forced to learn when getting to grips with new languages seems to mess with the linguistic software installed during those formative years the ear was being fine-tuned to process the spoken word.

Then I am often let down by verbal pronunciation – mainly of “new” English words that I may have seen written down in books or on the internet, but which due to my minimal contact with English-speakers, I have never heard spoken aloud. People unbothered by additional verbal cues would probably be able to have an educated stab – I am simply left floundering.

Even words I am long familiar with are sometimes mangled by dodgy mental pronunciation screening – usually called into use in a situation where I am having to switch between languages – leading to mortifying moments such as the time I referred to an epitome as an “epi-tome”.

Stoopid brain.

Last but not least is the peppering of speech with foreign words; sneakily authenticated by the simple application of an English accent, and the ever devious “False Friends” – English words, which although almost identical to  a foreign one, often have a vastly different meaning.

All in all I have come to the conclusion that I am not actually a very good linguist at all. It may well be that I can pick up foreign languages with relative ease, and even authenticate accents fairly successfully, but given that my brain has proved itself singularly incapable of maintaining standards in even my mother-tongue – a language I spoke exclusively for eighteen whole years – I really don’t hold out much hope for the other three…

This is Status Viatoris, who just heard only the other day of a man who speaks ten languages. TEN languages! How on earth did he have time to learn them all? How on earth does he practice them all enough to keep them active in his brain? I am extremely envious, but resigned to the fact that that will never be me in Italy.

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

The English language is liberally peppered with foreign words; most especially, and unsurprisingly given the historical and geographical proximity of our countries, French ones. So even the most linguistically challenged amongst us can lay claim to speaking at least a little Fronsay.

But can we really?

For although there is no doubt that ‘déjà vu’ (lit: already seen), soirée (lit: evening), rendez-vous (lit: go to) and maître d’ (lit: master of) to name but a few, have undoubtedly been plucked from the language of Molière, Dumas and Saint-Exupéry, use them in the same way over La Manche, and you may find the Entente-Cordiale tested to its limits by incomprehension.

Déjà vu in France tends to mean exactly what it says: “Do you want to go and see The King’s Speech at the cinema? Non merci, je l’ai déjà vu.” Rarely a  spine-tingling, vaguely supernatural experience to be had, despite being coined  in 1917 by French psychic Émile Boirac for just that purpose.

In France, la soirée is simply the time spent between getting back from work and going to bed. And you may pass that time exactly as you please: watch TV, have a dinner party, play chess, or stand naked on your balcony juggling ripe Camembert. Enjoy.

Rendez-vous in French is only ever used as a noun. One can make a rendez-vous, have a rendez-vous or forget to go to a rendez-vous. One most certainly cannot ring someone up and say “Hey! How do you fancy rendezvous-ing sometime tomorrow afternoon?”. C’est un big non non.

Maître d’ is an exceptionally strange term. Primarily because it would be correct if it wasn’t that we appear to have wilfully disregarded one word: hôtel. Thus we have demoted the Master of bookings and reservations, of greeting and seating diners and of waiting staff quality control, to a Master of… apostrophes?

In some sad cases, a child’s linguistic ability is compromised yet further by parents who rejoice in the corruption of fertile minds. I toddled happily off to school with a rich foreign language vocabulary; Yves Saint Martin – the house martin, courants noirs – blackcurrants, idées au-dessus de sa gare – ideas above his station and wass geher fer nicht? – what’s going on?; all of which mean absolutely nada, and made me look like a dummkopf in front of the entire class. Yes I shall be suing for hurt feelings and kaput dreams.

But the mangling of language is a two way street.

Take the word “feeling”, for example. It’s a fairly straightforward in English: (v) I’m feeling hungry/tired/on top of the world. (n) I have hurt his  feelings, (adj) how unfeeling of me… Whereas, in France “avoir du feeling” would indicate that there is a good vibe, or that two or more people have connected in some emotional way.

“Footing” is jogging in France and Spain, “brushing” is a blow dry (blow DRY, boys, don’t get confused now), “parking” is a carpark and “camping” a camp-site. Indeed, -ing has proved a popular addition to words all over the world; during the Spanish Gran Hermano (Big Brother) the term “edredoning” was coined. An “edredon” is a duvet, making “edredoning” the televised partaking in sexual activity underneath one by the housemates. Que clase!

Last but not least is the word “pudding”. I have been asked for the recipe for “pudding” in Spain, France and Italy, but I know not what it be. Because in the UK, pudding is a broad term for dessert. For said dessert, we can serve up bread and butter pudding, treacle pudding, suet pudding, Christmas pudding, plum pudding, rice pudding, semolina pudding, roly-poly pudding or Queen of puddings. But just plain pudding? Sorry, I just haven’t a clue.

I leave you with the now immortal, tongue-in-cheek question once put to me by a six-year old French boy,

“SV, why do les Anglais call urine, wee-wee? Shouldn’t they really have called it yes-yes?”

Uncanny.

This is Status Viatoris, hoping that her readers write in with yet more examples of mangled translations, in Northamptonshire!

status viatoris – being ‘on the way’/being in a state of pilgrimage

Apparently I swear quite a lot (substituting quite a lot, for all the bloody time would possibly be more accurate).

I don’t do it to be gratuitously offensive. I rarely swear at people (except the tossers who piss me off when I’m driving).

I also have, like many people, a subconscious radar that allows me to control my language in front of those who risk being mortally offended by it. (I’m sure my dear mother would love to be a part of that group, but bollocks to it, I say).

In English there are definitely words I am prudish about, though. While I’m more than happy flinging crap, shite, bloody, wanker and bollocks like plates at a Greek wedding, the notorious c-word had only crossed my lips once, and I still burn to the roots of my hair when I remember the occasion.

The f-word is also something that I have to be fairly riled about to use (although being a short-tempered, impatient, opinionated person, “fairly riled” is a state I enjoy on a very regular basis). However, I would be incapable of using the word in a blog post and I cringe when other people use it in their writing.

No, I like to think that most of my swearwords of choice have a sort of innocence about them. Who could honestly be offended by bollocks (unless, of course, a pair was being waved sweatily in one’s face) or infuriated by sod (except when one hangs heavily from a welly on a walk through a ploughed field)?

Of course one of the disadvantages of being a colourful linguist is the frightening ease with which you adopt the blasphemous kaleidoscope of vocabulary in other people’s languages. At best it can lead to an embarrassing case of running before you can walk.

At worst you look like the illegitimate son of a one-eyed swineherdess before you’ve even got your feet under the table.

This is Status Viatoris, who is also very fond of numpty, pillock, plonker, poltroon, Gordon Bennett, balderdash, hogwash and codswallop, surely proof that all is not lost, in Italy.