A Divine Weekend?
One more of those things my French part finds contradictory in you English is why such a pragmatic, no-nonsense nation, proud to call a spade a spade, and so mistrustful of anything vaguely smacking of verbal ostentation – especially when it comes in the form of words of more than two syllables in length - should be given to such hyperbolic extravagance in their choice of descriptive language. For there is certainly no other people on our planet who have incorporated into their everyday speech such effusive adjectives as ‘fantastic’, ‘extraordinary’, ‘marvellous’, ‘incredible’, ‘amazing’, ‘stunning’, to name just a few (frequently reinforced by ‘absolutely’ or ‘utterly’) to qualify what is barely distinguishable from the mundane.
Only the other day I had lunch with a friend in an English pub. The waitress, a pleasant, not unattractive young lady, brought us the menu, came back five minutes later, took down our order, and then departed after gratifying us with the sweetest of smiles along with a mystifying ‘wonderful!’ If, by this, she wished to compliment us on our choice of fare, the Frenglishman I am is yet to comprehend what she could have found so extraordinarily delightful about steak and kidney pie, peas and chips.
But what annoys me most is the use of the word ‘awesome’. Perhaps it’s because of the increasing ascendency it seems to be enjoying over all the others. Only last week an old school friend with whom I’d recently re-established contact after a lapse of many years was describing his two grandchildren, aged 10 and 12. ‘They’re little angels,’ he wrote. ‘When you next come to England you must visit us and see for yourself. They’re really awesome.’ Not that I wouldn’t like to believe him. The problem is that my three years as a schoolmaster in England taught me that if you don’t keep on top of these awesome little angels they can make your life worse than hell. Mind you, at first I didn’t exclude the possibility that the meaning of the word had changed since my dim and distant youth, and that it was now more or less synonymous with ‘nice’, or at most ‘excellent’. So I got out my Shorter Oxford just to make sure. But there it was in black and white: ‘Inspiring wonder, dread, or amazement’.
And then, to cap it all, last Friday evening I received an email from somebody (he was American, so it must be the same over there) offering his services to help me market my books.
‘Hi, I was checking out your france-calling website,’ he began. ‘It’s really awesome, but you could have a better Google ranking.’
Now don’t get me wrong. In all modesty, I think my website isn’t all that bad. In fact, between you and me, I’m quite proud of it. But I couldn’t help thinking that a less extravagant-sounding word such as ‘nice’ or ‘attractive’ would have been nearer the mark. Mind you, he was trying to sell me something, so I did grant him some leeway.
But it was his ending: ‘Have an awesome weekend’ that really got my goat. It wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate his politeness in wishing me something pleasant. The French do it all the time. And it’s not that my weekends aren’t usually agreeable affairs. I mean, this Saturday – providing the weather’s reasonably nice - we’ll probably go for a run in the car. And on Sunday, I’ve arranged to play a round of golf with a friend. But what could be so awesome about this? What on earth could make it such a wondrous weekend in the true sense of the word? And then, all of a sudden, it struck me! Couldn’t anything so sublime only come from on High?
Now, to be honest, I must confess that in my mature years I’ve become increasingly sceptical about the presence of a Supreme Being. Perhaps the seeds were sown in my early years when both morning and afternoon dominical presence at church was mercilessly imposed. Mind you, I might possibly repent when I feel that last breath coming. But, right now, I’m in desperate need of some material proof of His existence. And I’d certainly be prepared to reassess my position if He decided to deposit a brand new Aston Martin Coupé in my garage (I don’t mind the colour as long as it’s not pink). Wouldn’t that be truly awesome?
And, as for my golf, what if my usual drives, instead of systematically deviating to the right or left not much farther than I can spit, suddenly found themselves hurtling as straight as a dye for a distance worthy of Tiger Woods at his best? What if my twenty yard pitches, instead of failing miserably to attain the green, fell consistently within six inches of the flag? And what if my puts, instead of running a couple of times round the inner lip of the hole, and then defiantly popping out, were made to drop reverentially down with a satisfying plonk? Now, that would be more than awesome. That would be simply divine.
A longstanding francophile, Barry is the author of:
A French Dream|78819572] and
A French Escape|61699585]
Why not visit him at:
www.france-calling.com
He'd love to meet you.
Only the other day I had lunch with a friend in an English pub. The waitress, a pleasant, not unattractive young lady, brought us the menu, came back five minutes later, took down our order, and then departed after gratifying us with the sweetest of smiles along with a mystifying ‘wonderful!’ If, by this, she wished to compliment us on our choice of fare, the Frenglishman I am is yet to comprehend what she could have found so extraordinarily delightful about steak and kidney pie, peas and chips.
But what annoys me most is the use of the word ‘awesome’. Perhaps it’s because of the increasing ascendency it seems to be enjoying over all the others. Only last week an old school friend with whom I’d recently re-established contact after a lapse of many years was describing his two grandchildren, aged 10 and 12. ‘They’re little angels,’ he wrote. ‘When you next come to England you must visit us and see for yourself. They’re really awesome.’ Not that I wouldn’t like to believe him. The problem is that my three years as a schoolmaster in England taught me that if you don’t keep on top of these awesome little angels they can make your life worse than hell. Mind you, at first I didn’t exclude the possibility that the meaning of the word had changed since my dim and distant youth, and that it was now more or less synonymous with ‘nice’, or at most ‘excellent’. So I got out my Shorter Oxford just to make sure. But there it was in black and white: ‘Inspiring wonder, dread, or amazement’.
And then, to cap it all, last Friday evening I received an email from somebody (he was American, so it must be the same over there) offering his services to help me market my books.
‘Hi, I was checking out your france-calling website,’ he began. ‘It’s really awesome, but you could have a better Google ranking.’
Now don’t get me wrong. In all modesty, I think my website isn’t all that bad. In fact, between you and me, I’m quite proud of it. But I couldn’t help thinking that a less extravagant-sounding word such as ‘nice’ or ‘attractive’ would have been nearer the mark. Mind you, he was trying to sell me something, so I did grant him some leeway.
But it was his ending: ‘Have an awesome weekend’ that really got my goat. It wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate his politeness in wishing me something pleasant. The French do it all the time. And it’s not that my weekends aren’t usually agreeable affairs. I mean, this Saturday – providing the weather’s reasonably nice - we’ll probably go for a run in the car. And on Sunday, I’ve arranged to play a round of golf with a friend. But what could be so awesome about this? What on earth could make it such a wondrous weekend in the true sense of the word? And then, all of a sudden, it struck me! Couldn’t anything so sublime only come from on High?
Now, to be honest, I must confess that in my mature years I’ve become increasingly sceptical about the presence of a Supreme Being. Perhaps the seeds were sown in my early years when both morning and afternoon dominical presence at church was mercilessly imposed. Mind you, I might possibly repent when I feel that last breath coming. But, right now, I’m in desperate need of some material proof of His existence. And I’d certainly be prepared to reassess my position if He decided to deposit a brand new Aston Martin Coupé in my garage (I don’t mind the colour as long as it’s not pink). Wouldn’t that be truly awesome?
And, as for my golf, what if my usual drives, instead of systematically deviating to the right or left not much farther than I can spit, suddenly found themselves hurtling as straight as a dye for a distance worthy of Tiger Woods at his best? What if my twenty yard pitches, instead of failing miserably to attain the green, fell consistently within six inches of the flag? And what if my puts, instead of running a couple of times round the inner lip of the hole, and then defiantly popping out, were made to drop reverentially down with a satisfying plonk? Now, that would be more than awesome. That would be simply divine.
A longstanding francophile, Barry is the author of:
A French Dream|78819572] and
A French Escape|61699585]
Why not visit him at:
www.france-calling.com
He'd love to meet you.
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