Why the chicken really crossed the road

15 Apr

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I am just back from a lovely holiday in Albania complete with sun, sand, sightseeing and strange cocktails. However I have already written at length about how wonderful Albania is, so this time I think I will tell you what Albania has taught me … about chickens.

Before I continue, I should explain to any chicken fanciers reading this that there’s nothing unique about Albanian chickens, so far as I know, it’s just that I never had much exposure to chickens, or indeed any farmyard animals. My primary school teacher once let us hold some newly hatched chicks, and my family had the occasional visit to a farm during the school holidays, if we were passing one, but I’m a city girl born and raised, and I’ve mostly seen chickens in small, pale, plastic-wrapped pieces on supermarket shelves.

That changed when I lived in Albania, and especially when I married into an Albanian family. My mother-in-law keeps chickens, as do a lot of people in Albania, as long as they have a bit of garden for them to scratch around in. So let me share with you the wisdom I have gleaned about chickens so far:

1) Cocks crow all the time . I knew that cocks (or roosters, if you prefer) crowed at dawn, just like they do on cornflakes adverts. What I didn’t realise is that after they start, they don’t stop. They just keep going all day long. It’s pretty annoying if you’re trying to sleep late, or have a siesta – and I often try to do both.

2) People can recognise their own chickens. To me, one black chicken looks pretty much like another, and I assumed there was some sort of leg ringing system, or a more informal way of marking which one is yours, but apparently not. People can just look at a black chicken (or any other colour – I only give black by way of example) and tell whether it is their chicken, their neighbour’s, or a completely alien chicken. I think it must be an acquired skill. Despite a lot of peering at chickens over the last week, I still have no idea which is which.

3) Chicks are only cute for about two weeks. After that they stop being adorable little balls of fluff and turn into straggly, leggy things with half-grown feathers and a bad attitude. The males start to bully the females, which is not an attractive trait. However, chickens do produce new fluffy chicks pretty regularly, so it’s not too bad.

4) Chickens are chicken. This insult is well-founded because chickens really are scared of everything. They scuttle out of your way as if you were trying to kill them (even when you’re not), and when there was a loud bang at my husband’s cousin’s house, the chickens practically jumped into our laps. I can understand where the story of Chicken Little came from, because if anything dropped on their heads, chickens would undoubtedly be terrified enough to think that the sky was falling. This is also because…

5) Chickens are incredibly stupid. I mean so, so stupid. Especially the young ones. When they run from danger, as they so often do, they’ll as likely as not run in the wrong direction. They followed my husband’s uncle around when he was hoeing, even though one of them had already lost a toe that way. It’s no wonder they’re said to be able to live for a while without their heads – there’s nothing of worth in there anyway. And this also answers the age-old question, why did the chicken cross the road? Because it was too stupid even to realise there was a road, let alone that it would be in danger from traffic.

No doubt there is a lot more I could learn about chickens, and do feel free to inform me through the comments, if you are a chicken expert. For me though, it’s back to chickens being kept in the fridge, in pieces, until the next time I go back to Albania.

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Game of (Heavenly) Thrones

17 Mar

I was very excited a couple of days ago to receive through the post my author copies of Augustine: The Truth Seeker. It’s a brilliant feeling to hold your own book in your hand, and I have been waving a copy in the face of everyone I know, with what must be very irritating squeals of excitement.

Game of Thrones

I was going to write a post telling you about the book, and how you can get hold of it. (This is still something of a mystery – I have my copies but no bookshop seems to yet. Can’t be long now.) However, I have been watching a lot of the HBO series Game of Thrones recently – all three seasons in just over a week in fact, because we got a short-term Sky Entertainment pass. And I noticed some interesting similarities with my own work. Therefore, instead of telling you all about how wonderful Augustine: The Truth Seeker is, let me tell you why it’s just like Game of Thrones – but with a PG certificate instead of an 18.

  • It’s about an ambitious young man from a semi-noble, but not monied, provincial background trying to make it in the big cities of the empire. Remind you of Littlefinger?
  • Barbarian hordes start invading from the north and east.
  • Some people hold to the old gods, some to the new, and there are weird mystery religious from foreign lands with a worrying hold over believers.
  • Pretenders to the throne keep cropping up, and at one point in the book there are three monarchs, including a King (ok, emperor) in the North who comes south to try and take the whole lot.
  • Crossing a narrow sea was quite a big deal in both Game of Thrones and Augustine’s time. Especially when you did it with an army.
  • Family members scheme to undermine each other’s power base. (I’m thinking of City Prefect Symmachus and Bishop Ambrose – and just about any of the Lannisters, Barathaons and Greyjoys.)
  • Both have an emphasis on mothers who wish they had more influence over their wayward sons (Monica with Augustine, Catelyn Stark with Rob and Bran, and of course Cersei with Joffrey).
  • There’s a lot of celibacy, in the Night’s Watch and various religious orders of George R. R. Martin’s world, and in Augustine’s Monastry in the Garden. There’s also a lot of the opposite, when Augustine was a younger man – and everywhere in Game of Thrones.
  • Illegitimate sons who are dear to their fathers have an important role to play.
  • People drop like flies. Don’t get too attached to the characters in Game of Thrones or Augustine.

Of course, I’m being a bit facetious. It’s not just the lack of dragons in Augustine that distinguishes it from Game of Thrones; there are far more fundamental differences, the key one being that in Augustine’s world there is a truth that can be discovered, and the one who sits on the heavenly throne turns out to matter a great deal more than the earthly game of thrones. There’s also a lot less nudity and swearing of course, although there is some violence and “mild sexual references”. It’s aimed at the 12 to 14 age group, or mature ten-year-olds, so nothing too graphic.

So there you have it: Augustine: The Truth Seeker, the PG Game of Thrones. I await the phonecall from HBO about TV adaptation rights.

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Read an E-Book Week 2014

3 Mar

REAW 2014This is Read an E-Book Week, and therefore you should probably read an e-book. Preferably one of mine. This is an especially good time to try out my electronic offerings because my short story collections are free on Smashwords all this week, using the code RW100.

I had thought that my first post of this month would be about the release of my new book Augustine: The Truth Seeker. However, Augustine  is a little late (possibly held up by bad weather on the Mediterranean – you know how these Ancient Roman sea journeys can be) so download a short story or two to keep you going until then. I will be sure to inform the whole world when I do finally have my shiny new book in my possession.

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The Five Types of Ceilidh

1 Feb

I was at a ceilidh in Ayrshire the other night (don’t worry, I’d had the necessary inoculations). It was a small, cozy affair and it set me to thinking about the various kinds of ceilidhs that occur. The following list is probably not complete, so feel free to chip in using the comments section.

(Before I go any further, though, I should probably explain for anyone who is not in touch with their Scottish side that a ceilidh is a social event where people do, or attempt to do, traditional Scottish dancing. Yes, folk dancing is alive and kicking in Scotland, although it doesn’t features handkerchiefs or bells, thankfully.)

1. The Family Ceilidh. We’ll start with this because it was the type I was at most recently. This is a ceilidh held by a small group, such as a church or club, in a small (often much too small) venue, involving small people, since this is the type of ceilidh that kids attend with their parents.

What a family ceilidh is like depends very much on the group it’s composed of, and on whether you’re part of that group. At my own church a small, intimate ceilidh seems warm and friendly, and the children adorable. At an alien church or group it can feel a bit like wandering into a locals’ pub, where everyone knows you’re not from round here, and the children are worrying trip hazards. Norms of ceilidh etiquette also seem to vary considerably between groups; it will take me some time to get over the experience of being turned down by three men in a row for the last dance in Ayrshire!

Pros: If you’re local, you get a warm fuzzy, included feeling, and if you’re a kid there are patient people prepared to suffer backache in order to partner you in a dance.

Cons: If you’re not local you can feel a bit exposed and socially incompetent, although rumours of stonings are probably exaggerated.

2. The Beginners Ceilidh

This is probably the most common type. I’m using this term to refer to ceilidhs where a significant proportion of the dancers are newbies and the dances are not only called (i.e. instructions are given during the dances) but usually walked through for practice, too.

Beginners ceilidhs are necessary, because so many people want to try out a bit of Scottish culture, and you have to start somewhere, but there’s a sort of critical mass they can approach, where there are too many people who don’t know what they’re doing in proportion to those who do, and what you get is not so much a dance as a musical game of blind man’s buff without blindfolds.

The Eightsome Reel, one of the trickier dances, is particularly susceptible to this numbers game. If at least 5 of the dancers are experienced (including at least one in each couple), you’ll probably be fine. Any fewer and the Grand Chain turns into the Grand Guddle.

Pros: Friendly, welcoming, good for learning the dances, good for meeting new people.

Cons: A bit slow and boring if you do know what you’re doing. Potentially messy, and often overcrowded. Potential for minor injury.

3. The Enthusiastic Ceilidh

This is a type of ceilidh I often went to at university. It’s the type where the vast majority of people are at least moderately experienced, and some have been dancing since they were able to walk. The age profile also tends to be youngish.

Dances at this type of ceilidh aren’t boring, mainly because the difficulty level is raised by an increase in speed, the addition of twiddly bits (extra turns, different holds), and occasionally by sheer recklessness. (I was once at a ceilidh where all the girls in my set decided to change to another set in the middle of the dance, without warning the men. Or the other set.)

Fun though enthusiastic ceilidhs are, they’re not great if you’re a beginner, or physically infirm, or afraid of injury. Bruises on your arms are the least you can expect.

Pros: The best fun you can have in a chilly hall (it won’t stay chilly for long) or ruined castle. Great exercise and mentally challenging too.

Cons: Beginners and older people can get left behind. Potential for serious injury.

4.The Professional Ceilidh

When I say professional, I don’t mean anyone is necessarily getting paid for it, but you’d think they were, the amount of care, attention and exactitude that goes into the enterprise.

These ceilidhs tend to be run by Celtic societies or Scottish Country Dancing clubs. The age range is often post-retirement or thereabouts, and a very dim view is taken of whooping, falling over and, I expect, swapping sets mid dance.

A professional ceilidh is where you should go if you want to see what the dances are supposed to look like, without beginners’ mistakes and enthusiasts’ messing about. It is likely the only place you will ever see The Duke of Perth danced right through without people getting confused and giving up halfway.

Even the steps are performed correctly, from the ‘setting’ to your partner (a sort of skip and kick) to the circle step to the skipping step to get from one place to another, when most people just walk. They can even polka properly!

There’s something to be said for professional ceilidhs. There’s a lot of knowledge preserved in those gently bobbing grey heads that might otherwise be lost, they are entirely free of irritating beginner’s mistakes, and it’s satisfying to sometimes reach the end of a dance just as the music ends, and know you’ve done it right. But they’re a little staid for my taste. Maybe I’ll appreciate them properly when I’m older, but for now I still like to spin too fast, whoop too loudly, and invade other sets during the Virginia Reel.

Pros: Accuracy – extreme accuracy. Almost no potential for injury.

Cons: Pretty dull, and a bit disapproving.

5. The Impromptu Ceilidh

The rarest of all types, but not mythical. There’s a magical combination of ingredients, including a group of Scots, suitable music, a late hour and, usually, a certain quantity of alcohol, that can result in people grabbing one another by the crook of the elbow and launching into some Scottish dancing.

These are probably the least correct of all ceilidhs; the sets are usually the wrong size, there often isn’t enough space, and no one’s announcing the dances so people can be doing a different dance from the rest of the group, and indeed from their partner. It can also very easily descend into maudlin singing of Caledonia or raucous chanting of Flower of Scotland as the night wears on. But there’s something wonderful about ceilidhs that just spring from thin air because you want to express your joy through dance and, since you come from a culture that has a national style of dance, you can.

No doubt there are other ways of categorising ceilidhs, and there may be some types I have not experienced yet, but for the time being, these are the five different types of ceilidh I have attended. And I have the bruises to prove it.

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Gaudeamus igitur linguam latinam dum loquimur

28 Dec

(Let us rejoice, therefore, because we speak Latin.) Christmas is one of the few times that speaking, or at least singing Latin is commonplace. You may well have belted out the words “gloria in excelsis”, “in dulce jubilo” or (if you’re hardcore) “adeste fideles” yourself this festive season. While teaching the Sunday school about Christmas I noticed how ubiquitous it is at this time of year. “What does ‘advent’ mean?” “It’s from the Latin for ‘arrive’.” “What does’ nativity’ mean?” “It’s from the Latin for ‘born’.” And so on. It’s not just in church that you find Latin though. There are bestsellers other than the Bible that benefit from a little Latin magic – literally, in the case of Harry Potter. Most of the spells taught at Hogwarts are just instructions in slightly mangled Latin, and there are secret wee clues on the books for Latin speakers, too. I was kicking myself when I discovered the secret about Remus Lupin because it was there in his name all the time. J K Rowling isn’t the only author putting her classical education to use. The author of The Hunger Games, Suzanne Collins, uses a lot of Greek and especially Roman references, particularly in the names of Capitoline characters. When I found out that the name of Panem, her fictional land, was from panem et circenses, bread and circuses – the only things the Emperor Tiberius said Romans cared about – it gave me a lovely satisfied feeling all day, it was so right. The moral, clearly, is if you want to write a best-selling book for younger readers, speak Latin. In all seriousness, though, Latin is amazingly useful. I often say that it was the most useful subject I ever studied (barring reading, writing and arithmetic, which are the sine qua non of any education) and that’s no exaggeration. In Latin classes I learnt not only how to read Latin (although that’s sometimes handy) but also European history and geography (which weren’t really covered in History and Geography classes at that time, due to the vagaries of educational fashion). I picked up the bones of all Latin languages, so that I have an advantage when it comes to understanding Italian, Spanish, French, Portuguese and even Romanian. What’s more, by studying a dead language I learnt how to take a language apart, understand its components, and put it back together again. That has made it so much quicker and easier for me to pick up any language, as well as making my English grammar pretty much impeccable – no bad thing for a writer. Latin classes were also my first introduction to another culture, one that still fascinates me now. It was because I enjoyed GCSE Latin that I went on to study Classical Civilisation at A Level, and then Ancient History at university. If I hadn’t learnt Latin I might never have met my darling Alexander, and would almost certainly not have written my new book Augustine: The Truth Seeker. It’s no exaggeration to say that the course my life (my curriculum vitae, if you like) would have been quite different if I had never studied Latin. For centuries, Latin was the international language, spoken by all educated people (although admittedly the proportion of people who were educated was a lot lower than it is now). All those old documents and inscriptions in Latin were written not so that people couldn’t read them, but so that they could. With a knowledge of Latin you could study at any university in Europe in the Middle Ages, because that was the language they all taught in. Even today, the University of St Andrews (my alma mater) uses Latin in its graduation ceremony, so that I became a Master of Arts by the use of the secret magic words “et super te”, or Super Ted, as we liked to call it. These days, Latin is a bit of an elite pursuit, usually available as a subject only at private schools. I think that’s a terrible shame. Such a useful subject (and an enjoyable one, if you do the Cambridge Latin Course) should be available to everyone. So if you ever do get the chance to study Latin, seize it! Or to put it another way, carpe diem! For those of you who already speak Latin (or rather, read it, since conversational Latin isn’t very useful), here’s a wee Christmas treat to make you smile: image

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Train of Thought

25 Nov

I am writing this on a train. That sentence probably didn’t alarm you.  It might have done if I had instead written “I am writing this while driving a car.” That’s just one of many good things about public transport in general, but trains more specifically. I have been left in charge of the car keys recently and have had occasion to do a bit of driving, and while cars are certainly convenient and at times almost necessary, it has made me realise just how much I like trains, how relaxed they make me feel in comparison with the heart-palpitations-and-incipient-ulcer sensation I get when discovering that I’m in the wrong lane with no idea how to get to my junction.

Certainly, trains have their faults. They’re almost a by-word for lateness, they are sometimes crowded, and it’s not much fun being on the last train home on a Saturday night with all the people who are too drunk to drive, and far too drunk to regulate the volume of their conversation. However, those things are also true of buses, which are far less pleasant to travel on. So this post will be all about the superiority of trains as a form of domestic transport.

Five reasons why trains are better than cars

1. You don’t have to scrape the train on a cold morning, and the heating is already on when you get in.
2. If the train breaks down, you don’t have to pay to repair it.
3. Trains are almost never in the wrong lane, and can’t ever take the wrong turning because they’re on rails.
4. No one tailgates you on the train.
5. You don’t have to park a train.

Five reasons why trains are better than buses

1. Buses have to stick to roads. Trains often go through some of the most beautiful countryside, without any other traffic to scare the wildlife away.
2. Trains don’t take unannounced diversions and leave you in an unfamiliar part of town with no idea how to get to where you’re going.
3. You don’t have to go to each platform to find out which one your train will stop at; there will be a sign in a central area telling you which one. Not so with bus stops.
4. People on buses (in the aggregate) are louder, smellier and more aggressive than on trains. I don’t know why, they just are. Bus drivers also tend to be less friendly than train conductors. Maybe someone should do a sociological study.
5. Trains are great for writing on. It’s something about the white noise, rhythmic motion and view out the window. It seems to switch off certain parts of your brain in a really helpful way. Buses don’t have the same neurological effect, and anyway all the bumps mean you would never be able to read your writing anyway.

I’m crossing a misty river in perfect comfort, watching the stressed traffic driving along the bank below me, which means I’m almost on Central Station. Time to sign off.

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A Novel Outing

22 Oct

To say today has been mixed would be understating it. It started, far too early, with a Virgin tilting train to London – probably the only kind of train that stocks sick bags, because it has to.  I’ll leave the details to your imagination, but it wasn’t a pleasant ride.

Then, at lunchtime (hence why I was on the stupidly early train) I had lunch with Paula Johnson of the Society of Authors, authors Simon Brett and Fay Weldon, and various literary and publishing types at a little restaurant in London called Chez Patrick. This isn’t something I do often, I’m afraid. (Oh, my glamorous life!) It was because I was one of the winners of the Mail on Sunday Novel Competition. Entrants had to write a few paragraphs from the start of a novel (which may exist, but doesn’t have to) and include the word “train”. This competition has run since the 1980s, but this year was the last, unfortunately.

Lunch was nice, and everyone was lovely. It was preceded by a short award ceremony and a long session of photo taking, so the food was all the more welcome when it came. I finally got to see all the other entries, and the variety was amazing, not just of the use of the word train (which can have different meanings, of course), but more of style and mood. I can’t share them with you because they’re not mine, but I will give you the authors’ names so you can look them up if you’re interested:

1st place: Lynne Greenway

2nd: Clare Funnell

3rd: Susan Hope

=4th: Deirdre Palmer

=4th: Annie Whitehead

=4th: Me!

Unfortunately the day went downhill after the lunch. It could hardly go uphill from there I suppose, but there’s just something about London that’s determined to wipe the smile off your face and make you look as grim as a character from Eastenders. The lunch went on quite late, with lots of chatting, and afterwards Annie and I sauntered off towards our onward travel, thinking there was no rush. But there should have been, for me at least. Not only did I miss meeting up with my sister, because she finished earlier than planned while I finished later, but I fell foul of the off-peak rules. Six in the morning is definitely off-peak, but in London anything between 4.30pm and 7pm is not, alas. I was offered the chance to upgrade for £92 (chortle!) but instead I thought I’d sit in a cafe, drink an extortionately priced drink, and update my blog.

Anyway, I daresay I will get home eventually, and it has been a fun day out. Meanwhile, here is my winning entry for you to enjoy. The rest of the novel doesn’t exist yet, but it probably will someday.

Barry was supposed to be on the 6.15 to Birmingham. If he had caught the 6.15, departing platform four, he would by now have been at the airport, ready to fly out to his best friend’s wedding in Marbella. Instead he had caught the 6.14 from platform five, travelling to Fort William, and promptly fallen asleep. He had noticed his mistake when he awoke at Corrour station, and scrambled off the train. Now he was staggering, half-awake in the blustery wind buffetting Rannoch Moor. One thousand, three hundred feet above sea level, four hundred and thirty miles from Birmingham, with a suitcase full of beachwear and a stag giving him a belligerent look from a nearby hillock.

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The Book of Hezekiah

18 Oct

I am in the process of organising a ceilidh. (23rd November at Adelaide Place Baptist Church, do come along if you’re in Glasgow.) Finding a date that worked for the venue and the band, and didn’t clash with any popular events or holidays, was a bit complicated and protracted, and no doubt there will be all sorts of headaches to come about layout, first aid provision, audio, catering and so on (in fact I’m giving myself a headache now just thinking about it). However, one thing that I didn’t have to give any serious thought to was the start time: 7.30pm, of course, as is prescribed in the Book of Hezekiah.

Hezekiah is a book of the Bible that contains all sorts of useful instructions and information about Christian living. This is where it says (in chapter 3, “Times and Seasons”) that morning church services should be held at 11 (or 10.30, at a pinch) and evening ones at 6.30, but that all other evening Christian events (or in the case of the ceilidh, events with Christian venues and / or organisers) should start at 7.30. This chapter also lays down the exact amount of time one should remain in one’s seat after the service, depending on the solemnity of the final hymn, depth of the sermon and proximity to communion (Eucharist), before one can make a foray towards the biscuits.

If you’re of a religious persuasion at all, you may be wondering where Hezekiah is in your Bible, and why you’ve never come across the 7.30pm rule written down. I mean it sounds familiar, but you can’t quite place it. Minor prophets, maybe, all those tiny books tucked away at the end of the Old Testament that you only come across accidentally when trying to find the start of Matthew at Christmas? Or, if you’ve gone so far as to check the contents page of your Bible and find it’s not there, maybe it’s in the Apocrypha, that land of exotic and forbidden scriptural delights?

No, I’m afraid the Book of Hezekiah, while very useful, doesn’t actually exist. It’s just a Christian joke, but one with a point. It’s an unwritten record of our shared assumptions and habits. Tea and coffee should be served after the service, not port and sherry. Why? Because thus is it laid out in Hezekiah 5:12. It should be served by women, of course, as is prescribed in the following verse. Women must also lead the Sunday school and clean the church, of course. The Book of Hezekiah’s not great on gender liberation. These instructions may change in the future. One of the unusual things about Hezekiah, compared to other Bible books, is how it alters its content from one generation to the next.

Then there are the moral precepts that you know are right, but that you just can’t find anywhere else in the Bible, like the prohibition of gambling or the command not to lie. Yes, the ninth commandment almost says you shouldn’t lie, but not quite, so you need the Book of Hezekiah to fill the gap. This is less of a problem for Catholics of course, who can draw on both scripture and tradition. Protestants (like me) base their beliefs, in theory, sola on scriptura, meaning that when scripture lets you down, you have to turn to Hezekiah.

Now I’m not saying that you should lie and gamble. Nor am I advocating a departure from the authority of (real) scripture, although it is worthwhile to bear in mind that while Bible+ has its dangers, the sola scriptura approach also has potential weaknesses. No, what I’m saying in a rambling sort of way is that you should question your assumptions, even if everyone else in your church holds the same assumptions. What are they based on? If you don’t know, maybe you should find out, and decide whether or not you should keep them.

“For in the critical examination of the assumptions, wisdom is found,” as it says in Hezekiah 1:6.

(But the ceilidh will still be at 7.30pm – I’ve printed the tickets.)

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Glasgow Details

18 Sep

My previous photo post on Glasgow’s grafitti art proved rather popular. As a writer, this leaves me with mixed feelings: happy that people are reading my blog, perturbed that more people read it when there isn’t much actual writing. Hmm. However, stiffening my British lip and trying not to be offended, I have decided to post another lot of photos. (Click on any of the photos to see a larger version.)

Glasgow is, of course, swimming in great architecture. In fact you can barely tell one beautifully proportioned Georgian street from another when you’re in a hurry, and the looming, ornate Victorian piles have a tendancy to blend into one another after a while. (If you’re reading this thinking “Isn’t Glasgow a big industrial dump?”, do your research. Or better yet, come and visit.)

These photos are of some of the nice wee details in Glasgow city centre that often get overlooked – things we ought to appreciate more. For instance, there’s a lovely new piece of artwork in Buchanan Galleries that people don’t tend to see much of as they rush towards the escalators on their way to Boots.

divine rhythm, wholly at one With the earth, riding the Heavens with it, as the stones do, And all soon must.

…divine rhythm, wholly at one
With the earth, riding the Heavens with it, as the stones do,
And all soon must.

The central Post Office, on St Vincent Street, is rather impressive if you have the time to stop and appreciate it.

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Even Central Station’s not bad. A Dutch friend said it reminded her of Hogwarts! (An aside: Central’s not much like Hogwarts, actually, but the wood-panelled, stained glass dining room of St Salvators Hall in St Andrews really is. If it had been any closer, food would have appeared by magic. And tasted nice.)

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To be fair, you probably have noticed Central Station. It’s not exactly a detail (though I like the wrought iron working in this photo). But what about the giant metal peacock in the middle of Buchanan Street (above Princes Square)?

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And probably my favourite detail of all: baby dragons outside 200 St Vincent Street. Why? I don’t know, but they’re adorable.

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Do you have any favourite overlooked details of Glasgow? Please add a comment!

What you think, you are.

19 Aug

If I hadn’t lived in Albania I would have been very confused by the way my Italian lodger empties the dishwasher. Glasses, pans and spoons pose no problem, but bowls are placed on a pile of plates, and plates on a pile of bowls, totally at random. Wooden spoons and spatulas find their place, but kitchen knives are nestled next to table knives.

Because I lived in Albania, where they obviously have a similar approach to cutlery and crockery, I know that he didn’t just get fed up half way through and stop caring where he put stuff. Instead, if his culture is like Albania’s, it makes no distinction between plates and (eating) bowls, or between kitchen knives and table knives. To fit out our kitchen in Tirana we got a pile of shallow bowls which served for everything from soup to bread and jam, and after searching in vain for proper table knives we got a packet of the awkward plastic knives that everyone else had – too sharp to be safe at the table, too small and blunt to be useful in the kitchen.

What interests me about this is not so much what plates different cultures eat off (although I’m sure there’s a PhD in there for someone), but the way our cultural assumptions affect the way we think,  behave and even see. My Italian lodger has perfectly good eyes and, if he stopped to think about it, could see that there is a pile of flat plates next to a pile of concave plates, but since he thinks of them all as plates, he doesn’t see it, so he slots them in at random. Similarly, in his mind knives are knives, so the fact that there is a cutlery drawer and a separate utensil drawer gives him no pause.

This sort of thing is often connected to language. In Albania, ‘pillow’ and ‘cushion’ are the same word, and people do seem more ready to use cushions as pillows than they would be here. A dislike of moths combined with a liking for butterflies strikes people as illogical, since they are both flutura.

It works the other way round, too. To me, there are different kinds of brushes but they are all still brushes. In Albanian there are two distinct words, so you have to think about what you’re using the brush for. Is it a sweeping motion (fshes) or a scrubbing / stroking motion (furce)? When you ‘change’ something, are you exchanging one thing for another (nderroj), or changing the form or substance of the thing itself (ndryshoj)?

All very boring if you’re not interested in comparative linguistics, I’m sure, but it has an application in our own language as well. There’s no male equivalent of ‘slut’, for instance, or any of its many synonyms. Also, ‘mistress’ might be the feminine equivalent of ‘master’, but it does not mean the same thing. There are well-known derogatory terms in British English for most ethnic groups, but not for white people. These things might seem tiny, but they do colour our thinking, because words are the tools we use to think about the world; they are the lens through which we see it. It is a good thing to be aware of the deficiencies of your lens.

George Orwell understood the power of words when he described “newspeak”. You can read about it in Nineteen Eighty-Four, a brilliant but disturbing book.  You can also hear newspeak in real life, if you keep your ears open, especially when listening to politicians. (‘Efficiencies’ for ‘cuts’ would be one example.)

As for the title of this post, it comes from an excellent quote attributed to Methodist minister Norman Vincent Peale:

“You are not what you think you are. But what you think, you are.”

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