'I keep six honest serving-men...'

Another musing, this time from by the Thames whilst waiting for someone to finish work on a Friday evening a few weeks ago. Because I'm that way inclined. And apparently sitting by water does peculiar things to me when I have a notebook and pen close at hand.

It had been inspired by a phone conversation the evening before where a friend had found himself having a debate in a pub. Over the phone afterwards, we'd subsequently begun our own debate on what it is people are seeking to do when they argue. 

Many are afraid to not be seen to have an opinion, to admit ignorance on a topic. And so up and down the country, in pubs, restaurants, coffee houses, living rooms, in beds, you can hear arguments on politics, religion, the economy, distant military conflicts, the right way to brew a cup of tea.

I truly think that we defend our subjective feelings with rational arguments to justify that which we wouldn’t change when faced with contradictory evidence. We argue and defend our position, attack that of our opponent, rather than listen, question, reflect. We rarely ask ourselves, ‘Why does the person I’m talking to hold their view? How are they constructing their argument in defence of it? Is there any merit to it?’

How many of us can admit to ourselves and to each other that we sometimes use our intelligence as a weapon to clothe gut feelings in rational thought, backing it up with what we deem to be empirical evidence? Is he who shouts most eloquently always right?

And if one is right is the other consequently intrinsically wrong? Why must we divide into opposites, into black and white? We argue, defend, become offended, attack. But who knows the full picture of any situation? It feels as though there must be a supreme ignorance in assuming you know all there is to know about any given topic or situation.

We argue opinion rationally, and so ask yourself: would you change your stance if presented with a  logic that revealed flaws in that opinion? Or would you acknowledge that there’s arguments against the view you hold and continue holding it regardless? And if this is the case, why carry on arguing, attempting to persuade others that your way is the right way when it is likely that, like you, they are unlikely to change their position? Are you debating to elucidate, or are you arguing to humiliate, to convert? If the latter, pause to question yourself. Why are you seeking to convert, to humiliate? Are you so incredulous at someone else’s opinion that you feel you must enlighten them, show them the error of their ways? Or have they attacked you first, and you’re on the defensive?

And so, rather than arguing, attacking, defending, simply waiting your turn to speak, let me make a quiet suggestion: we can recognise the power and strength of questioning. Instead of blinding your opponent with facts, general knowledge, negative assumptions about their viewpoint, we can try truly listening to their position. Why do they think what they think? Are there deep-set assumptions sitting behind their argument, ideologies, are they cherry-picking their facts? Can we challenge through questioning, not through arguing? Are we able to make them think through the implications of their own argument, see the different sides? 

Listen. Question. Summarise. Find connections between seemingly disparate points, find logical flaws in their argument, take opinions to their logical conclusions. Play devil’s advocate, agree with them, test opinions you don’t believe in. All these things can be done without taking up a position in opposition to the person you’re talking to, which will at some point need to be defended. Rather than argue, you can work together to debate a point of controversy and work out why it’s a point of controversy; rather than seeking to embarrass, batter down, win, you can have an open conversation where the end isn’t a forgone conclusion.

And, if done skilfully enough, if you’re able to lead them down a path of thought with your questioning, you may just convert them to your way of thinking.

And just to sign off, here's a few lines from Rudyard Kipling and a few verses from a Tim Minchin song, on questioning and straddling:

I KEEP six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

~ Rudyard Kipling ~

I'm taking the stand in defence of the fence

I got a little band playing tributes to ambivalence

We divide the world into liberals and gun-freaks

Into atheists and fundies

Into tee-tot'lers and junkies

Into chemical and natural

Into fictional and factual

Into science and supernatural

But it's actually naturally not that white and black

You'll be

Dividing us into terrorists and heroes

Into normal folk and weirdos

Into good people and pedos

Into things that give you cancer and the things that cure cancer

And things that don't cause cancer, but there's a chance they will cause cancer in the future

We divide the world to stop us feeling frightened

Into wrong and into right and

Into black and into white and

Into real men and fairies

Into parrots and canaries

Yeah we want the world binary, binary...

The more you know, the harder you will find it

To make up your mind, it doesn't really matter if you find

You can't see which grass is greener

Chances are it's neither, and either way it's easier

To see the difference when you're sitting on the fence

~ Tim Minchin ~

I 'heart' LDN

As a Londoner and a commuter, I appear to be heading towards the terrifyingly indelible territory of becoming one of those uncouth City-folk who is easily frustrated with tourists. More specifically, with tourists who amble along at a snail’s pace, who change their mind about which direction they're heading in last minute, that don't know Tube etiquette. It never used to bother me, but I'm increasingly finding myself angrily rolling my eyes at those who stop dead in front of me whilst I'm trying to get somewhere. (“Rolling my eyes” because I’m far too polite to take any overtly physical or verbal action that may be considered rude).

We know who we are. We manoeuvre the streets of London, or whichever city we're living in, with an aggressive grace somewhat akin to the lovechild of a gazelle and a heavyweight boxer (for the record, I’m not suggesting that all urbanites are living alternative lifestyles involving bestiality). We walk with purpose. We walk with phone in hand, talking, typing or reading. We know which platform we need, exactly how to navigate the maze of tunnels, escalators and buskers to get there, where to stand on the platform to minimise the distance to the exit at our destination. We effortlessly weave betwixt all those that stand in our path. We do not initiate conversation withother commuters. We maintain a dignified sense of personal space whilst sweatily pressed up against each other on the Tube, casually reading our books, Kindles and free newspapers as though we were in our own private studies with a glass of brandy within easy reach. We raise a wry ‘brow above narrowed eyes at tourists who comment loudly about how busy and/or hot the Tube is.

There is, however, something that feels profoundly wrong with this attitude. It’s rooted in the notion that we’re busy people, and that we need to get to where we’re going as quickly as possible. We must not waste a single precious moment. All those who ramble aimlessly are wasteful, procrastinating, lost waifs.


But as J R R Tolkien wrote in The Fellowship of the Ring, "Not all those who wander are lost". 

When I wrote my “I resolve to…” list for 2012, one of the entries was to walk more. When I started this blog, it was partly to capture the many wanderings of the City that I’d planned to do. So far, seven months in, the blog’s been light on the wanderings, and heavy on the ponderings (and notebook/book fetishes). This is partly because I am, as a colleague has aptly christened me, a “Sun Baby” who retreats to the safety of my duvet as soon as it begins raining, and conversely needs to be physically tied to my desk if you expect any work from me once the sun graces us with its presence. It’s also partly because over the last few months I’ve managed to let the mundanity of life distract me from l’art de vivre, ie from the small things that make us happy.

Thankfully, the past week has reminded me why I included ‘walk more’ on my list and I think it may have saved me from becoming a caricature of a soulless City-dweller.

Before I get to the Portobello mushroom of this post (I’m a vegetarian; “meat” is lost on me) and why I think we need to take a leaf out of the tourists’ book, let me share a few of my procrastinated meanderings from over the last seven days:

Sunday 22 July:  Headed out to The Regent’s Park (on the bus I might add, a last minute decision after realising I wasn’t in a rush and it was a beautiful day, so why get the Tube?). Read by the boating lake. Looked out aimlessly onto the boating lake. Resolved to go rowing on said boating lake before the summer ends. Walked over to Camden market the long-way round, with a stop off to look at the giraffes in London Zoo, which can be seen from the street. Arrived at Camden. Spent too much money on new piercing, second-hand books and jewellery. Curse you Camden.

Tuesday 24 July: After quick drink with a colleague after work, decided to go for a wander as it was too nice an evening to head home. So: From Minories down Canon Street, down to St Paul’s (nice little walk around St Paul’s Cathedral. Discovered London 2012 mascot Wenlock dressed as a red phone box. Also learnt that apparently couples deem the grounds of St Paul’s perfect ‘making out’ territory), down  Fleet Street, the Strand, detour into Somerset House, back onto the Strand, to Trafalgar Square, an aborted walk around The Mall before back to Trafalgar Square. Jumped on the bus back home after seeing that there’s a route that goes right outside my flat, and once again realising that I wasn’t in a rush to get to my destination.

Wednesday 25 July: A group of us from work go for a wander around Tower Hill at lunch, to see all the various London 2012 activities that are going on. Cameras come out, and we joke that we look like tourists when we actually just work five minutes away. We become increasingly excited at the sight of Olympic volunteers.

Thursday 26 July: Quick drink with another colleague after work before heading home to view a house. Tube back into town at about 8.30 in the evening. Destination? The temporary Fire Garden at the National Theatre. Absolutely breath-taking, and end up spending about an hour and half there before finally heading back home via Westminster Bridge.


Friday 27 July: Took an hour out with a colleague to watch the Olympic Flame on the Gloriana by Tower Bridge. Aside not having a clue what was going on, and both of us being too short to really see anything, was brilliant for the buzz and the barge. 

For those that are good at maths, you have hopefully worked out that:

(impatient commuter - urbanchip on shoulder)^sunshine x time to kill = urban tourist

Or something like that. Maths isn’t one of my strong points. Much like geography.

But I digress. To cut what’s becoming an ambling piece of writing short (ironic, no?), what I’m getting at is that I think we sometimes need to become tourists in our own cities, to take in the city around us with the eyes of curiosity and wonder normally reserved for the unfamiliar.  

In my previous post from by the sea, I ruminated on how we can recapture that sense of peace we often feel when we’re away from home. I didn’t have an answer. But during each of those mini stories from the past week, I found myself feeling exactly the same way I did whilst away. And this made me pause, to try and work out how it was that I’d managed to feel that freedom whilst in the middle of London, where I work, commute, go out, every day.

And I realised it was this: I’d suspended my rational Londoner for the moment, and taken on the traits of a tourist with all the time in the world to explore and all the curiosity of discovering the new. My pace had slowed down; my eyes were turned up and around me to take in the architecture and surrounding world. Walking down Canon Street and then Fleet Street I saw things I’d not seen before, like the fact that many of the buildings sat on top of the highstreet shops are all wonderfully old, each strip unlike its neighbour. At the Fire Garden I could hear fellow Londoners saying, “I don’t get it”. But there was something beautiful about the little cauldrons and plumes of flame right by the River, and the use of music to complete the experience. In the same way that looking on at water and the sky can turn us into philosophers and poets, fire has the same effect. There was nothing to get. It was there to just be enjoyed.

Wherever we live, we tend to stick to the familiar. To the same pubs, the same restaurants, the same shops. How many times have you said, “I’ve just not gotten round to seeing it yet” about an event, museum or some other ‘tourist’ activity? I’ve lived in London nearly twenty-seven years (minus a stint in Manchester for university), and I’ve only just started enjoying all it has to offer. With the sun out, and the greatest sporting event taking place on our doorstep, we have no excuse to not head out of the comfort of our homes and explore a little. Okay so “no excuse” may be a little harsh, but if we have time to kill or we’re deciding what to do in the evening or on the weekend, it’s not hard to checkout www.spoonfed.co.uk or www.londonist.com or whatever the equivalent for your city is, to see what’s going on, or just heading out to an area we don’t know that well and pretending we’re tourists in our own city. I love London, and will always be a Londoner wherever I’m living. But it’s only when I act the urban tourist that I remember why.


A few photos from the last week

Beefeater Mandeville by Tower of London

The Fire Garden at National Theatre

"His pen could lay bare the bones of a book or the soul of a statesmen in a few vivid lines" Not a bad way to be remembered for a journalist. T. P. O'Connor on Fleet Street.

An example of the architecture on Fleet Street (and around London) if you can take your eyes off the high-street chains

Another shot from Fleet Street

A couple of statues fly the flag for London 2012 on Fleet Street

Breathing feels effortless

A (lightly edited) musing from by the sea.

There are some moments, some scenes, smells, sounds, feelings that you wish you could capture in their entirety to relive, to experience again once the moment and sensation has passed. They don't come around too often, and when they do they tend to be unique, the type that never could be recreated. Not because the circumstances won't allow it, but because of the way in which you experience it, who you are at that precise point in time when it arrives.

As I write this, the old fashioned way with paper and pen, I'm in one of those moments. Nothing can improve it; I wouldn't want to try and improve it. Nothing could detract from it.

I'm going to attempt to capture it through words, having already attempted through picture. Forgive me if it becomes pretentious, wandering, nonsensical. Let's just see where my pen takes me.

I'm sat. Beneath me and around me is a sprawl of black volcanic rock. I've found a spot with no juts, with the perfect footrest at the perfect distance and at the perfect height in front of me.

The sun, which has been beating down on us all day, is starting to weaken on Round Seventeen, and is starting its descent back to the horizon. My back is to our villa, which lays just behind me. The door to our backyard is open, and I know it to be framing my youngest brother as he relaxes listening to music by the pool. My other brother is somewhere behind me, also on the rock, reading. His girlfriend is dozing, on a sofa inside the villa. 

In front of me, the sea is breaking on the lava flow, its persistence building up as the tide starts to come in and the slight breeze that's roughing my hair picks up.

There are four sailboats in front of the horizon ahead, white sails chasing each other, a little like a school of fish we followed earlier in the day whilst snorkelling. A few seagulls are showing off overhead, surfing the wind currents that I can't see.

It smells of the sea; slightly fishy, slightly rancid, slightly salty, all lying just beneath your breathe, catching you unawares every now and then as the wind changes direction.

Camera beside me. Music in one ear. The sound of the waves breaking, the wind, and kids playing further down the shore in the other. 

All sense of stress, worry, self-doubt, self-consciousness has slipped off. My mind feels completely disconnected from my body. But at the same time, it feels like — for the first time in a long time — mind and body are in sync. 

Breathing feels effortless. You pause every now and then to take in the world around you, remind yourself to savour it.

I turn around, and see I'm now alone. And it feels right that there's no-one else here, no-one sharing this moment, this experience. And not for the first time over the last few years, I relish the freedom of thought, of feeling, of experience, you can have when alone.

I'd been sat here for what must have been half an hour, writing something else entirely, absorbed, before I became aware of the peace I was feeling.

Living in the city, immersed in day-to-day life, with work, money worries, always around people, you can so quickly forget who you are when all that is stripped away, who you are at your core. Even in those moments when you manage to snatch some 'me' time, you're still aware of the buzz going on just outside your door, the other end of your phone, and you carry that buzz around with you. 

And so sat here, now, just you, you realise. So what if you're not quite as fit as you should be? So what if your weight isn't quite what you feel it could be? If you aren't quite up-to-speed with the latest on the economic crisis, haven't seen as many plays or been to as many exhibitions as you could, that your hair seems to have taken on the appearance of a wet poodle?

This sense of peace with yourself, with the world around you; if you could capture it, take it with you wherever you go, to be able to close your eyes and relive that sense of freedom of self that you felt, how much calmer would your feelings towards life be? And how much more switched on would you be to that around you, to that which matters and that which does not?

So we are who we are, we love who we love, we enjoy what we enjoy. How hard is it to recognise this in ourselves, to respect it in others? We each have our strengths, our weaknesses, fears, joys. Unless we can find the headspace to explore them in ourselves, unless we can be open to sharing them, to being trustful of those we spend our days with, will we ever be able to recapture this peace when back in the tempest of our 'normal' lives?

Why is it so hard to say, 'This is me. And this is you. I'm not perfect, but then perfection exists only as an abstract ideal anyway. Let's strip away our agendas, our walled selves, our distrust, and just be.'

Not the best photo, but a photo nonetheless

Have you tried turning it off and on again

For the first time in my life, the phrase "sun, sea and sand" has been swiftly followed by another phrase: "technology detox". Never have I felt such a need to disconnect. The irony of writing this on a blog to which I will share the link through a number of social networking sites is not lost on me. The disgustingly 'first-world problem' nature of this topic is also not lost on me. If you can help it, please don't judge. If you can't help it, then judge away; I'm already two steps ahead of you.

Over the last few months I've been increasingly aware of what's become a death grip on my iPhone. My love of books, pens and paper haven't protected me from slipping into what I vowed I'd never become: someone who feels the need to neurotically play with their phone, unconsciously swiping through apps and screens as if somewhere in between the neatly ordered folders lies the Holy Grail, covered in dust, lying next to a scribbled answer to world peace on the back of a receipt, a worryingly tantalising-looking year-old pizza slice, and the film the fourth Indiana Jones should have been. In meetings I've succumbed to a behaviour that again I always vowed never to adopt: checking my BackBerry for work emails whilst someone's talking to me. It's not just me either. I've noticed on the Tube that 70% of the people seem to be playing with a smart phone of some description. Seriously, have a look around you next time you're on public transport and count how many people are looking at the screen of a phone. In meetings the table is occupied by the blinking red lights of BlackBerries that just can't be left behind. A number of us appear to be orbiting around our phones rather than anchored within ourselves.

I don't have an issue with the technology or how people choose to use it. My job is all about helping a firm of lawyers understand how they can use social media tools in a business context and looking at how this intersects with the firm's culture. I'm a huge advocate of the Internet and social sites as learning tools, as invaluable ways of connecting people, and I love how smart phones have changed how we interact with, navigate, discover, and share the world around us. We've seen the power of it, for both good and bad. I know that it's just technology, and it's all about the motivations of the people that are using it. And I know of the fears around our 'always-on' culture and the arguments that it's rewiring the way we think and engage with one another. But it's certainly been a catalyst for changes in behaviour all around the world, supporting (and harming) a whole range of areas, from education to development to democracy.

But at a Social Business conference in 2012 — despite being hugely inspired by some truly mind-bending talks and it cementing that this is a field I'd like to forge a career in — there was a concept that struck home the level of our addiction: "the always addressable customer". This is someone who has multiple devices, all connected to the Internet, that they check frequently in multiple locations. Sound familiar? What are you reading this on, an iPhone, an iPad, a BlackBerry, a Macbook, laptop, desktop PC, some other device? Did you find your way to this post after it had been shared on Twitter or Facebook? Are you out and about, stuck on a train or bus, in your bedroom, at work?

I am that person. I can think of 5 devices I own/use that can be connected to the Internet in some way and allow me to share and find content (for the record: a Macbook, a netbook, an iPhone, a work BlackBerry and a Kindle. God help me, what have I become). I've lost count of the number of times I'll open up Twitter during the day just to see what's going on and whether any useful articles have been shared by those I follow, or unlock my phone and browse around with no real purpose or task in mind.

The things I've found and experiences I've had off the back of always being connected are countless and (nearly) all positive: a lovely summer festival in Hampstead I would otherwise not have known about, finding out about the Science Museum showing the last Dark Knight instalment on 20 July, discovering articles and tools that are invaluable for my work, nurturing professional relationships and friendships that may have otherwise faded away, opening up my mind and thinking to areas of learning I'd have otherwise never discovered, etc etc etc.

So I'm not saying we need to all turn our devices off and stop sharing. What I am saying is that I've forgotten what it feels like to not be connected, to not be contactable. To have some headspace to completely free my mind of distractions and totally immerse myself in the task at hand, whatever that may be. To truly enjoy wandering a city, or reading, or writing, or watching a film, or having a conversation with a friend, without feeling the need to check my phone every five minutes for phonecalls, texts, or some other notification. The freest I've ever felt was on a bus in Malta on my own, my friend having returned to our apartment an hour before. No-one knew where I was and my phone was deliberately switched off. It felt amazing. It felt calm and peaceful. It felt like the volume on all the background noise and buzz had been turned right down. No, it felt like it had been eliminated completely. On the Tube I've started to try and practice 'the art of doing nothing' every now and then, rather than always playing with my phone or reading. A few months back I had the revelation that playing the piano is easier if I actually concentrate on what it is that I'm playing, without letting my mind wander elsewhere. It sounds obvious, but it's easy to forget. The notes flow a little smoother, the melody comes a little easier, my fingers are suddenly more nimble. You feel connected to the music you're playing and only the music. It's the same if you're writing, or reading. Rather than dividing your attention, if you completely focus your mind onto what you're doing at any one time, it's suddenly so much easier, so much clearer. It's like a scene framed through a camera's viewfinder snapping into focus, or the clarity of vision once you've put your contact lenses in. Or finally hitting a radio station in amongst the white noise.

So as of Wednesday, I will be on a much-needed holiday. I'll be doing the normal: sun, sea and sand. I'll have the 'devices' that I normally take on holiday with me: iPhone, camera, Kindle (the BlackBerry is most definitely being left at home). But for the first time, I'll also be making a conscious effort to not be digitally connected. My iPhone will hopefully be in airplane mode for the majority of the time, used just for music. The various things that I've started writing are going to be printed off and I'll be working on them in one of my numerous notebooks with one of my numerous pens. The Kindle's 3G will be switched off, and is only a backup in case I finish my current book (The Age of Wonder by Richard Holmes. I can't recommend it enough). I'm hoping for early morning/late night walks by the beach that's a stone's throw from our villa. And more than anything I'm hoping to calm the constant whirring that goes on behind your eyes when you know you're connected. To switch off to switch on. To free up some space to muse and let the mind wander down whichever path it chooses to take. To become immersed in books, writing, sun, and good company. This is why I've resisted the urge to litter this post with hyperlinks, to put a relevant video at the end, to try not to add to whatever other distractions are trying to tug you away from finishing (if you've made it this far, well done and hello. How's it going?). The video I would have shared would have been 'Yelp: with apologies to Allen Ginsberg's "Howl"' if you have time to look it up on YouTube. Now, where did I put my phone, it's been at least ten minutes since I last checked it...

Shirley you can't be serious

Hands in the air if you’re a user of language.

If you’re not looking like a surrender monkey right now, arms flailing about, then you might want to take a seat. I’ve got some hard news to break to you.

We all use language. That’s right, even you, reading this sat there in your underwear in a technology-induced stupor. Oh wait no, that's me in the mirror. Ahem. Moving swiftly on. Whether we’re deaf, blind, or an animal that’s not only learnt how to read English but also how to operate a computer and navigate to this blog (if you’re the latter, get in touch. I have a business proposition for you); we all use some form of language to communicate to others, to externalise our internal worlds, and to shape our thoughts. There’s spoken language, body language, the facial expression of a dog that’s commandeered some kitty treats, sign language. Whether we’re conscious of it or not, all of us are communicating all the time, sending out signals about ourselves and what we’re feeling and thinking, whether there’s someone available to pick up and interpret those signals or not.

Now. Hands in the air if you’re a lover of language.

My arms were emphatically up there until I realised I’m incapable of typing with neither my toes nor my nose.  I’m talking about the written or spoken word here, as opposed to the intricate language of what our gestures, postures and philtrums say about us. And I’m definitely not talking about a love of language adopted by those that militantly oppose a culture that embraces ‘verbing’ (turning nouns into verbs, eg “I favourited an article” and “Google it”), or deplore the fact that the ‘the youth of today’ speak in a language that no-one over the age of 18 can understand.

Rather, I’m of the ilk (and hopefully you are too) that loves language precisely because it evolves, because of the way words can be woven together to form lyrical phrases that sound like music, because of how it can be used to express ideas and feelings.

Here’s an example of precisely what I mean. Last month my friend and I were playing top trumps with our levels of boredom. Mine was caused by a slight quarter-life crisis moment, whereas hers was due to the experience of having to vacuum some kamikaze peas from her freezer. My response to the banality of her situation was, “I bow in deference to the mundanity of your boredom.” And the improvisation of that little phrase and the way it flowed and sounded instantly cheered me up. Quarter-life crisis successfully, if only temporarily, averted. At work there’s a few of us that are constantly playing with the meaning and sound of words, it’s a well-used pastime in my family, and I’ve had various playful arguments with a number of friends about use of words and their meaning. Those same friends also write, and we often read each other’s work, commenting on passages, ideas and use of words that we particularly like or think could be improved. (A few of them have blogs, which I definitely recommend and can be found on the left-hand side of this page.)

When you’re reading, or listening to a song, or a speech, or writing, or just chatting with your friends, it’s those moments where you can’t help but applaud the use of language. Maybe the idea that’s been conveyed has been expressed in such a way that it’s made you smile. Maybe it’s a word you’ve not heard in ages that evokes particular nostalgic feelings.

I’ve read a few authors this year whose writing styles I love. They couldn’t be more different from one another. On the one hand we’ve got Oscar Wilde and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Both are self-indulgent in their use of language, using words and phrases that are ripe with description, poeticism, and tangents. I don’t think I’ve come across any writers today who write like those of the past, where meaning and form are so interwoven, where complex feelings and philosophies are veiled within the vocabulary selected. I love it. I wish I could not only write like that, but get away with writing like that. On the other hand we have George Orwell. Putting his novels to one side, I’ve read a few of his non-fictional works this year. His use of language sits in such stark contrast to Fitzgerald's and Wilde's. It’s simple, matter-of-fact, there are very few trills or flourishes. He has a set of rules for writing that were created in opposition to a trend in political writing in the ‘40s that he raged against. He loathed the style that favoured recycling of metaphors and the use of twenty words where two would do. As one of my brothers wrote last month, sometimes simplicity is best.

All three authors have their own particular styles and ways that they choose to use words. I respect all three, and all three have passages that I’ve come across that have made me pause with admiration and jealousy at how they’ve expressed themselves. Yes it’s the ideas and story that they’re composing that have struck a chord. But – a bit like my amateur phrase on boredom (seriously, go back and say it out loud) – there’s something about the way they pluck out their words and combine them. It’s their masterful use of the language that we all have at our disposal, and it evokes a simple love of the infinite number of ways that we can play with what’s essentially a finite number of words. 

The choice of these three authors is indicative of another facet of language that I love. Although it evolves over time, and the meaning of words change, we can appreciate use of language from the past. There was an excellent programme on ITV earlier this year called Lenny Henry: Finding Shakespeare where Henry spoke to a number of people to find out about their feelings towards good ol' Bill (*shudder* Apologies). Two of the best parts of the programme were a blind test of Shakespearean phrases against hip-hop lyrics, and a kids' workshop run by actor Adrian Lester. Henry had a difficult time guessing correctly what was Shakespeare and what was Snoop Dog, whilst the workshop got the kids rapping and acting out Shakespeare. Both exercises were a fantastic way of thinking through the Bard's use of language and showing that, although written centuries ago, we can still enjoy his choice of words.

This is love of the written word (I’m including speeches and songs in that group, as they’re initially refined through writing), but there’s an equal love of the use of language that comes out in conversation. As I said, quite a few of my friends and work colleagues banter purely about the use of language and words. It might be about taking particular words out of context to change their meaning, about x-rated double entendres, arguing about the meaning of a word. It’s always playful, always quick-witted. Trust me, anyone who refuses to argue about semantics is missing out.  

So yes, I’m a lover of language. I think it has to be allowed to evolve because the world around us evolves, and we evolve. How else can we fully express ourselves unless language adapts to both reflect and shape what we’re thinking? Why shouldn’t we play with words and create new ones where the old don’t suffice, don’t reflect how our culture has shifted? But on an even simpler level, we should appreciate the words, the phrases – whether carefully crafted or spontaneous – that flow, that make us pause at their brilliance, make us laugh in wonder at their existence. We all have the same building blocks at our disposal. As Orwell says in his rules, we shouldn’t slip into lazily using the same language that we’ve heard before but be playful in our originality, creative in how we use those words. 

Go on, what's your favourite phrase, your favourite word? Do you play with language or do you find yourself getting stuck using the same phrases? (If your hands have been in the air all this time, I suggest you put them down before you type your answer. Unless you can in fact type with your nose. In which case I have a separate but equally good business proposition for you too.)

Whilst you're having a think, I'm just going to have a watch of this video overlaid with a monologue from Stephen Fry on language. If you've got the time, maybe have a watch too.