There are some words, phrases and expressions, the use/misuse of which I actively dislike. For example: “shortly” instead of “soon”; “hopefully”, when not used as an adverb; “on a daily basis”, when “daily” will suffice; and “obviously”, when no fact has been established. But I have learned not to rant pedantically on the subject. It is a fact that language evolves over time, regardless of those who may be wound-up by its transitions. Besides, if ever objection is made to a perpetrator, the usual response is, “Well, you know what I mean,” which is hard to argue with outside of a court of law. Anyway, I don’t identify as the Canute of linguistics.
Not that I have many face-to-face conversations in these lockdown days. Most of my time is spent in solo pursuits and it is my good fortune to have acquired an asset that makes this more enjoyable: a garage. Now, to some, a garage is a place to keep cars, while to others it is an overflow storage facility. To me, however, it is a workshop/mancave, something I have been without for 25 years and which I had not realised I missed, having found other, more cerebral ways of coping in the interim. Now, my brain is taking a break, while I concentrate on DIY jobs, some of which could not be fulfilled without a workshop of some sort. For example, the restoration of a G-Plan sideboard, made by E. Gomme of High Wycombe circa 1958. Originally finished in West African tola veneer, its last owner had painted it, inexpertly but imaginatively, the carcase in battleship grey, some of the doors/drawer fronts in turquoise and others in tangerine. The handles are missing, presumed stolen, but I was happy to pay £30 for it, with the intention not to reinstate the veneer finish – tola is not an outstandingly attractive wood – but to cut back and repaint it in the previous owner’s scheme. It’s quite a project, but my enthusiasm is undimmed (though I am having second thoughts about the tangerine).
Seeing that I am spending perhaps too much time in the garage, my partner found a new way to lure me out of it. She has enrolled us in Clear my Patch, an umbrella organisation for voluntary litter-pickers. Given that I am, in principle at least, civic-minded, I could find no grounds for objection, especially as she presented it as a way of adding purpose to those impromptu recreational strolls around the shoreline and green spaces of our new locality. Besides, hadn’t we already developed a litter-picking habit over the years as we hiked around the countryside? Yes, but the quantities involved – the odd can, bottle or wrapper which you can stuff into your rucksack – do not compare with the accumulated debris consigned to the dead corners of an urban landscape. Our first expedition, which lasted less than an hour, netted two bags full of rubbish, some of it quite off-putting (dog walkers, please take note).
I went solo the next time, venturing only as far as the marine slipway overlooked by our terrace. Low tide had deposited some plastic debris among the clumps of seaweed – a more appealing proposition, since it had been thoroughly rinsed in seawater. Besides, on the shoreline, there is always the romantic, if remote, prospect of finding a message in a bottle. Of course, I found no such thing – just plastic and two metres of old rope, which I briefly considered keeping (in the garage) in case it should come in handy. I picked up a lot of plastic, but my satisfaction was dulled by the thought that there would be more with the next tide. Obviously, I could find myself there on a daily basis, Canute-like, deluding myself that I can stem the flow of debris. Hopefully, this will not become another obsession, but we shall see, shortly.
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