*shuffles right on past long blog silence*

On 16 April 2020, the Word of the Day selected by the online Macquarie Dictionary was monopodium (noun):  “A single main axis which continues to extend at the apex in the original line of growth, giving off lateral branches beneath in acropetal succession.”

It struck me as interesting that monopodium is both a basic graphical concept, in terms of an extending line with offshoots diverging outwards below the tip, as well as a perfectly apt description for the natural phenomenon of trees like pines or conifers, the ones that shoot up straight with branches and growth all beneath the ‘arrow’ pointing skywards.

I don’t believe that I’ve ever actually considered what that very specific kind of shape could be described as, but it’s always a nice surprise to find there is indeed a word for a previously not thought of concept.  It’s a little reminder of the expanse of humanity’s linguistic history and, well, thought in general.  I may never have questioned a straight object or line with lateral branches coming off it, but to someone at some point?  It was important to find a name for that in order to communicate more effectively.  I really like that.

I was also intrigued by what ‘acropetal’ means, because I also enjoy a good dictionary definition that throws up more questions than it answers.  Breadcrumbs of mystery for everyone!

I haven’t actually looked ‘acropetal’ up yet. I’ve a strong suspicion that its actual meaning won’t be as cool as what my mind has invented, and sometimes, you just have to preserve the mystique.

Moving right along from my terrible blogging schedule, here’s a term that I do not understand at all. I think it may be a hazard of using a Macquarie Dictionary, there’s a bunch of Australian slang that apparently even I, as a native, don’t get.

non-U (adjective) (Colloquial)
“Not appropriate to or characteristic of the upper class.”

At this point, the only connection I see to the upper classes is… maybe the upper classes strut about calling themselves ‘U’ while everyone else is like, “lol no u”, the most eloquent of comebacks. Anyway, research time.

Oh wow, I wasn’t that far off. It’s not an Aussie thing, though, it’s British.

Firstly, typing non-U into Google, or whatever your search engine of choice, will get you a bunch of 10 Words that Prove You’re a Middle Class and Desperate type of results. If you’re keen to be seen as English aristocracy even when you’re really, really not, go see which terms to avoid to keep the facade up a little longer.

From Old Faithful Wikipedia, the terms “U” and “non-U” was coined by a professor of linguistics at the University of Birmingham, Alan S. C. Ross, in his article, Linguistic class-indicators in present day English. Bear in mind that “present day” referred to the 1950s. U stood for unitard upper class while non-U represented the aspiring middle class.

Professor Ross was looking at the differences in pronunciation, writing style and vocabulary between the Us and the non-Us that preferred fancy or fashionable words in their attempt to appear more posh. Ross’ article indicated that the non-U language, while intended to appear refined, was not matched within U circles- the rich folk knew they were rich and that their standing within society remained solid, and therefore they had no need to sound all fancy schmancy. The Us often stuck to the traditional/plain words used by the working class as a consequence.

Ross’ article was published in 1954, and in the same year, author Nancy Mitford poopularised the use of U/non-U terms in her own essay, “The English Aristocracy”. Mitford went a step further and knocked up a glossary of terms used by the upper class. A national debate started and I imagine that a number of previously smug, aspiring types suddenly started to fret about how their schmoozing had really gone down when they scored that invite to Lady Whatsherface’s tea party.

“Could I really have said I was going to use the toilet?!” Glenys sobbed into her hands. “No wonder Norma smirked like that!”

“It’s alright, love, no one would’ve noticed,” Mama said soothingly. “How about a second helping of sweet, would that make you feel better?”

“It’s PUDDING,” Glenys screeched. Flames erupted from her nostrils. Her mother wondered whether the serviettes near her plate would catch alight, and then she realised that she’d spoken aloud. Glenys inched closer, muttering about ‘napkins’ and ‘loos’, and Mama feared that this night would not end well at all.

Hitting in at the height of concern over image, improving oneself and general snobbery, being confronted with non-U vernacular must’ve cut deep for some.

Golly, what an interesting turn this took. 🙂

Okay, okay, I know that paper cuts aren’t tragedies but I just got one and the word for today is ‘tragedy’, so I figured I’d start out by whining. No one understands my tiny, stinging pain. There, now it’s out of my system.

tragedy (noun)

1. A dramatic composition of serious or sombre character, with an unhappy ending.
2. Any literary composition, as a novel, dealing with a sombre theme carried to a tragic conclusion.
3. A lamentable, dreadful, or fatal event or affair; a disaster or calamity.

Pictured: An actual tragedy.

I find it intriguing that the dictionary has listed the literary and dramatic aspects of a ‘tragedy’ above what I would ostensibly consider the actual meaning, being a terrible/catastrophically negative event. What came first, Hamlet and everyone feeling depressed after the play’s final act or the horse and carriage accident right outside the theatre?

I might be asking the wrong question. However, let’s take a look into the origin of ‘tragedy’.

To begin, you must start at the beginning

Tragedy has a Greek root in the word tragōida, which apparently means “goat-song”. Why the heck singing goats are involved in this at all is still debated according to this article by Mark Cartwright on the Ancient History Encyclopedia and a shorter, more lighthearted comment here.

The Ancient Greeks were super into plays and theatre kids were always the most popular at high school, even though the sporty athlete types got a fair bit of attention by running around in the nuddy. (Discus and dicks? Count me in!) (Mum, if you’re reading this… sorry.)

Anyway, there were theatre competitions in Athens and apparently the prize was often a goat, so that could be contributory factor.  You spend your day acting out some epic poetry, win at life and get given a goat – who wouldn’t burst into song?  Or try to make their new goat buddy belt out a tune?  I bet that goats are great at karaoke, especially when it’s a Baabra Streisand song or Leona Lewis’ Bleating in Love.

Leading from the goat prizes is the interpretation that the open air theatres of Ancient Greek were often performances relating to or worship of the god Dionysus. Now, Dionysus is all about a good time- he’s also known in Roman circles as Bacchus- so singing and dancing are kind of his thing, along wine, plays, music and ritual madness.

In worship of Dionysus, a goat was a good sacrifice to make (goat leather could be used as wine skins and the horn of the goat pruned grapevines if they grazed around a vineyard). When a goat was sacrificed to Dionysus, a lament was sung in the wake of its death. Plus, satyrs are associated with Dionysus, probably because they’re over-sexualised half-goat dudes that enjoy a drink and a healthy dose of lust. In performances, people would dress up in goatskins to perform as satyrs.

The performances that got called ‘tragedies’ generally involved a plot where the main character(s) become involved in situations that cause them or others pain and destruction. Importantly, the plot should cause fear, discomfort and/or sorrow for the audience. Some Shakespearean tragedies still end happily, but the usual tragedy does not end well for anyone. Classic examples of tragedies include Medea, Oedipus Rex and Macbeth.

Stalin knew what he was talking about

The quote, “The death of one man is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic”, has been attributed to Joseph Stalin and while I don’t think it’s been verified, I reckon he totally said it.  He was a git, but he was a pithy git.

The sentiment is a true one.  The key to a tragedy, as the ancient playwrights knew, was to make the story about an individual so that the audience was forced to empathise in some way.  Humans can’t process things at a huge scale and the higher the number of people being affected by whatever (natural disaster, shooting, famine, etc.), the easier it is for your mind to shut down and push away the sheer enormity of the tragedy.

It’s simply harder to picture a thousand people dead, say, from a fire.  Show a picture of one kid crying from the pain of her third degree burns, though?  Cuts you to the quick.  You’ll think of every time you ever burned yourself, or else you’ll imagine the same thing happening to you, your kids, your loved ones.  Tragedy is effective in small doses.  The individualised plight can be used as a representative of the whole, which is generally how the media and charities tend to package stories so that people will respond appropriately.

Before I descend into a full on dissertation into the 24 hour news cycle and the over-saturation that ensues causes fear and sadness for everyone and a resultant shying away from news, here’s a picture of me in Mongolia from a few years back.  As you can see, I’m laughing to myself as a herd of goats prepares to trample me to death.

We return to normal flippin’ with a word I reckon we can cover pretty quickly.

referee (noun)

Who likes a referee, really? Unless it’s someone you’ve put down on your CV, it’s usually a person whose decisions can make it or break it for the individual or team you’re cheering on and they are ALWAYS biased against your peeps! Or so it seems.

Of course, a referee is not simply a sports related thing; it’s a person who is charged with the responsibility of settling a matter or overseeing that the rules are upheld in such a way that an outcome is achieved fairly.  Kind of a mini-judge, just without the gavel or robes.

At the end of the argument, the game, the case, someone wins but it usually isn’t the referee – either one or both of the participants will resent the referee. In saying that, though, if both parties are unhappy, a referee has usually done a good job. At least, an objective and fair one, because everybody’s equally happy.  Yay!  Compromise.

So, I conclude that a referee can be defined as:

1.) A person to whom something is directed, especially for decision or settlement; arbitrator; umpire; universally hated; drinks every night but with two glasses set out to simulate friendship.

There are no oddly attired prairie dogs below, unfortunately. But I did see some recently!

And it is with that pronouncement that I advise I was on holiday in America just a couple of weeks ago and enjoyed it thoroughly. And I suppose I should really put a picture of a prairie dog in here so that this post isn’t just a total waste of your time. I’m not here to clickbait anyone, not badly anyway. That reminds me, have you heard about the one simple way to get a six pack and grow a second head? Scientists are outraged!

Et tu, human.

So the States were fun. Saw some amazing places and a load of natural beauty, and we stayed out of politics as much as possible. I traveled with my Mum and we went in a bus tour, so there was much driving around Southern California, Utah, Nevada, North Dakota, frigging a whole bunch of states. As a person with little to no sense of direction and/or ability to retain where I am or have been, I’m still having a whole heap of difficulty understanding where the heck we went to. But still.

I’ll probably randomly make reference to the USA in other posts to make myself seem well traveled and cultured (I totes am), but for now, let us talk of a word that I shall flip through and find now as I am criminally under prepared, as usual.

Aha, let’s make a massive

blunder (noun)

1. A gross or stupid mistake.
2. To move or act blindly, stupidly, or without direction or steady guidance.

Blunder is one of those interesting words that has a sort of onomatopoeia to it. It sounds clumsy, it sounds like a word that’s tripped its way into your kitchen, broken three wine glasses and your entire drawer of crockery right before landing face first on the floor.

Let’s do an experiment with what is expected to be delicate or graceful and chuck a blunder in: “The ballerina blundered across the stage, pirouetting unsteadily as the other dancers fled.”

I editorialised a little, but as soon as I wrote about a ‘blundering ballerina’ I could only picture the ballerina ripping across the floor like a drunken hurricane. ‘Blunder’ forces you to think unwieldy, ignorant things almost because the word itself is dorkily blunt upon your tongue.

Having performed a quick Google search (we spare no expense here at Dictionary Flip), ‘blunder’ is a Middle English word that first arose in the 14th century and likely has a Scandinavian/Old Norse origin, possibly the word blunda, which meant to shut one’s eyes. Huh. I’d have laid money on a Germanic origin, possibly an old German folklore of a troll that moved sluggishly and once erred by stepping on a princess, causing her knight errant to kill the troll in revenge.

Guess I made a bit of a blunder in my thinking there. But that’s it for the moment, I have to go shove my dog off my lap now, he’s too bloody hot.