Frankly, I am tired of writing about coronavirus, lockdowns and the belligerence and duplicity of the Chinese government. Looking for a completely different topic, I came across a tweet this week by American author and blogger Chuck Wendig. “What is the pettiest, silliest, most meaningless hill you are willing to die on”, he asked. What a waste of time, I thought.
NIGHTLY QUESTION: what is the pettiest, silliest, most meaningless hill you are willing to die on
— Chuck Wendig (@ChuckWendig) May 12, 2020
Well maybe just one hill to die on: good grammar. A single example will suffice. When asked to provide our names during day to day business dealings, we respond accordingly. Sometimes a disorganised absent-minded shop assistant or clerk will forget. “What did you say your name was,” they ask. After answering for a second time, I helpfully add “And still is”. I am not sure my humour is always appreciated.
Okay, there are a few other meaningless hills. Still about titles, I am fascinated by this modern trend of call centre operators endlessly repeating my name with every question as if I were some poor fogey struck by dementia. In their defence these overworked and underpaid staff do not write their scripts. Not all of them want to be your bestie, so forgive them for their overly familiar and cloying manner.
But sometimes the temptation to respond facetiously proves too much. A few years ago, having undergone a minor surgical procedure, I contacted my private health provider for what should have been a straightforward request. My call was answered by an excessively cheerful young man with a fondness for uttering “awesome” every time I responded to his questions. “And I take it that procedure you underwent was a success and you’re in good health,” he asked effusively.
Regrettably that was not the case, I informed him. “I have at the most only three weeks to live, and am trying to finalise my affairs,” I said in a melancholy tone. Silence on the other end followed by a horrified stammering. “I – I - I don’t know what to say,” he said. Just pulling your leg, I said. Poor fellow, I think he needed counselling after that.
Another pet hate: stupid questions. While I was awaiting the medical procedure in question (a colonoscopy), the anaesthetist, after introducing himself, asked how my day was going. As well as can be expected for someone about to be violated, I replied. The anaesthetist who looked after me last time was far more to my liking. She even joined in as I sang Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” while they wheeled me off to theatre. Not all drugs, or anaesthetists for that matter, are bad.
Then there are stupid bureaucratic questions, which are in a class of their own. When applying for a copy of my birth certificate some time ago, I chose not to complete the box marked “Reason you require this certificate”. The alert young public servant at the counter noted the omission and politely explained she could not process the request without my filling this in. There was no point rousing on her, for she had not designed this ridiculous form. I shrugged my shoulders and wrote “I intend giving it as a birthday present to my friend Harry the goldfish”. She was satisfied and I got my certificate.
Bureaucratic questions are annoying, but not half as much as the disingenuous tosh you will find in the commercial world. While staying at an expensive apartment in Hobart, I read in the information guide that rooms would not be serviced on Sunday as management did not wish to “disturb” guests. What rot. It is a case of tight-arse owners not wanting to pay their housekeepers penalty rates. I understand the reason for cost-cutting but please do not insult my intelligence with this deceitful drivel. Also, there is that ubiquitous sign at hotels which asks you to consider re-using towels. Consider adjusting it to read “Here at this massive 30-storey hotel comprising metal, glass, steel, brick, concrete and chemicals we care about the environment”.
There is a lot to be said for returning to plain language. I love dining at a fancy restaurant but am bemused when told about the “food experience”. It is just food, for pity’s sake, albeit cooked far better than I could manage. If you are a fellow salt addict like me, you will have also noticed the outrage of waitstaff when asked for the condiments. “The chef has already seasoned the dish – sir,” one replied haughtily. Next time tell them you are the one paying for the food experience.
You may also have received a letter from a government agency referring to you as a “customer,” notwithstanding you wanted nothing to do with that entity but were legally obliged to register with it. It also puzzles me why airlines use “customer” instead of “passengers”. Still on the sky buses, I remember the pre-flight safety briefings on the now defunct Ansett Airlines. “In the event of a water landing a lifejacket is under your seat,” the flight attendant would say nonchalantly. A water landing? You mean like something out of that film Airport ’77?
In this litigious age I understand why companies go to the nth degree in spelling out where you stand before letting you negotiate a simple transaction. But I have no tolerance for the rip-off merchants, particularly the operators of council and airport public car parks. You would have seen those big signs next to the entry that detail in small font the numerous terms and conditions. Next time you drive up to the boom gate, get out of the car and take your time while pretending to read them. When the furious attendant demands to know what you are doing, simply tell him you need to understand all this information before deciding whether to accept their contractual offer.
Speaking of signs, I often think of one I saw outside a Perth shopping centre: “Blind Dogs Permitted,” it read. Surely they should have thought about their audience. Then there are the dreaded Americanisms. I want a takeaway coffee, not one “to go”. I will book a return flight, not a round one. A car’s official identifier is a registration plate, or the colloquial “rego,” not a “licence plate”. A contemptible person in Australia is an “arsehole”, not an “asshole,” although I like the latter’s use to describe one who is hopelessly inept.
Good grammar is essential, grammar Nazis are a pain in the proverbial. Never let anyone tell you that you cannot split the infinitive. It is chimera wrongly transposed from Latin, and so-called educated people go to ridiculous lengths to avoid offending this false grammar god. Likewise, dismiss the protests of those who advise against beginning sentences with conjunctions.
As for pretentious types who maintain it is incorrect to end a sentence with a preposition, there is always this joke. A Midwestern student at the American national university games introduces himself to a fellow competitor from Harvard. “Where are you from,” the former asks in polite conversation. “I’m from an institution where we do not end a sentence with a preposition,” the Harvard student replies arrogantly.
“Oh, my apologies,” replies the Midwesterner. “Where are you from, dickhead?”
Admittedly this list is longer than I had intended. It is the opposite of Julie Andrews singing “My Favourite Things” in The Sound of Music. I loathe that film by the way. Brown paper packages tied up with string? Pfft.
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