Posts Tagged humour
According to the Net, a Word Nerd is:
- Someone who enjoys learning new words.
- Someone who, when confronted by an unfamiliar word while reading, looks up the definition.
- Someone who may keep a list of favorite words.
- Someone who is fascinated by the nuances of language, especially the history of words and the shades of difference in meaning between similar words.
This is SO me! (Although I would have denied it fiercely in High School – extremely uncool …) I love words like perambulator, finnimbrun and Mungo. It makes my fingers itch for the dictionary and makes me wish that I came up with those first.
I am green with envy at J.K. Rowling’s ability to make up new words and use them so seamlessly in her books.
Quidditch, muggle, Voldemort. Whomping willow and legilimancy. Knuts, quaffle and squib.
Doesn’t that sound like a poem, or a song?
According to Jim Burrows, the first documented use of the word Nerd is in the 1950 Dr. Seuss story, If I Ran the Zoo1, in which a boy named Gerald McGrew made a large number of delightfully extravagant claims as to what he would do, if he were in charge at the zoo.
There are also gamer nerds, techie nerds, internet nerds and comic book nerds. There is even a page dedicated to ‘How to be a Nerd’, although I disagree with the dress code stipulated – polo shirts are just not my thing …
Viva the Age of the Nerd!
Jane is a character who wandered onto my computer screen one day.
How I wish she hadn’t. She is very cute. She demanded that I tell her story ( Occupation: Author), which I dutifully did and thought that would be the end of it.
Seems I was mistaken.
She has now become very demanding and is popping up at the most inconvenient of times. (Such as when I am supposed to be working on my novel.)
The only way to get rid of her nagging in my ears, is to write what she wants me to.
I might have to give her her own page.
Here is another installment.
I’m sure you’ll hate it. Enjoy!
Jane’s Writer-Slave, previously known as Celia.
Another day in the life of Jane:
Jane was having a bad day. So bad that her left eye had started twitching on her way to the Spa and she had to wear those hideous black Prada sunglasses, since her Husband had sat on her favourite pink Chanel pair just that morning and he KNEW those were her favourite.
No-one could see her in the back of the limo as they raced down Main Street, but Jane believed in looking her best no matter the circumstances, so it mattered very much that she was having a bad sunglasses day.
The badness (her word, not mine, cringed the Writer-Slave) started when she asked HIM very politely to ask his new secretary to go out and buy her a new pair. He mumbled something that sounded very much like ‘not-asking-her-do-it-yourself’ as he fled the breakfast table and left for work without their usual pouty kissy-wissy.
Jane slid across the wide backseat of the limo and spilled her G&T. “Larry!” she screeched and knocked on the glass divider behind the driver’s head. “Slow down for God’s sake!”
“I swear that man thinks he is Michael Schumacher,” she huffed and grabbed the door handle as they raced around another corner.
The thought of tall, blonde, German men made her think of the Husband’s tall, blond, non-German-very-American new secretary.
“Why is he refusing to ask her to run errands for me? Mrs Morrison never minded.”
Jane was seriously miffed and her eye was seriously twitching when they stopped in front of the Spa. Larry took an inordinate amount of time to come round and open the door and when he did, she alighted with her nose in the air and deigned to say: “Thank you, Driver.”
You couldn’t get too familiar with the Help; you never knew who was watching.
She thought the salute and low bow he gave her was a nice touch, especially since it was only his middle finger that touched his cap.
“Cute, I might not fire him after all,” she thought as she swept past the girls in the Spa’s foyer.
“Dahling!” she cried and air-kissed her best friend, Cylvia.
To be continued – I hope
I sat at the bus stop, sweating as usual. Six months in Singapore had done nothing to help my body get used to the humidity; could just as well have lived in a sauna. This had some advantages though, like not having to wear makeup since it just slid off your face anyway.
Imagine my surprise when Elvis joined me at the bus stop.
All dressed up in a shiny (nylon in that heat?) brown shirt with sparkly silver stars, and a slightly darker brown pair of pants. Brown platform shoes helped him reach to my shoulder.
Who knew Elvis was that short?
A beautiful pompadour was set in concrete and a pair of mirrored sunglasses rounded off the look. I wanted to clap and cheer when he took a stance, hip thrust forward, yanked out a black plastic comb from somewhere and smoothed one wayward strand of hair back into place.
Why didn’t I have my camera with me?!
The bus dutifully arrived, exactly on time. I kid you not, I’ve timed them. We boarded the bus and stepped from 40 degrees C to -10. Elvis walked in front of me and I could have sworn I heard a ‘howdy’ when he greeted the driver.
I had made a hobby of watching the locals’ faces when they saw me coming. Their expressions would range from: Oh sh.., don’t let the ang moh (long nose/foreign devil) sit next to me! Or Sh.., she’s coming my way. Look away, look away!
This time, that reaction was reserved for Elvis. In a country where conformity is king, eccentricity is not encouraged.
Elvis merely sneered his trademark sneer and sat down in splendid isolation. I could have asked for his autograph, I was that impressed.