Let’s call a spade a spade

Press, 23 January 1988, Page 16

Let’s call a spade a spade

Superfluous adjectives and I are not friends. The sort of adjectives I refer to are the ones which turn a perfectly acceptable story into sycophantic prattle. “She is not your run-of-the-mill designer” went one story a few weeks ago. Oh really? Actually, I had already assumed that, as no-one in their right mind would spend hours interviewing and writing about someone of mediocre talent. “She has been happily married for 25 years.” Surely this is superfluous? One is hardly likely to describe themselves to a relative stranger as "married for 25 years and as miserable as sin.” You are either married or you are not. No-one is ever “happily married” all the time. Patches of dissent crop up constantly, and the only reason the marriage survives is that these patches are not considered important enough to throw in the towel.

Chronically unhappily married people are called something else altogether. Divorced. Describing yourself as “happily married” in print carries an additional burden. You may not be when publication date comes around. Ask Susan Renouf. She has built her reputation on marriages that Mills and Boon writers would give their, eye-teeth for. Then there is that wonderful expression, “a confirmed bachelor.” Does this mean he has re-af-firmed his faith in God? Or is the writer trying to tell us slyly that he doesn’t indulge in a het-

erosexual lifestyle? Elderly people shuffling around old people’s homes are described as being “a ripe old age” as if they were date-stamped for freshness. Even worse, "a wonderful age.” I wouldn’t mind betting that “a wonderful age” in their mind would be about 50 years ago when they could walk unaided and be treated as the adult they are rather than a small child who must be constantly supervised. Fashion publications for some reason seem hellbent on wallowing in the adjective arena when writing profile pieces on fashionable people. It appears that when a woman marries anyone of relative wealth and continues to pursue anything that could remotely be described as creative, we are all expected to be as awe-struck and gushingly delighted as the interviewer. While this is pretty harmless stuff, it totally destroys any . credibility the interviewee may have had and we are left with the impression that the woman in question is as sickeningly superficial as the article. Hot on the heels of superfluous adjectives, designed to nauseate even the most mildly intelligent, are euphemisms. I was taught that a Passover was an eight-day Jewish celebration of the Israelites being saved. It would appear, however, that pass over is something someone does when their heart stops beating. Women are not hospitalised for illness, instead they have something which is airily referred to as a “woman’s complaint.” To me, a woman’s complaint would be a short whinge about socks which mysteriously enter the laundry in pairs and return alone. Possibly the euphemism which causes the most confusion in our family is the one used for the homosexual community. Gay.

It happens to be my sister’s name, one which she has become reluctant to acknowledge in crowds. When someone asks me her name I have learnt never to reply, “Oh, she’s Gay.” When the bank in which she once worked handed out name-tags to identify their staff (Hi, I’m Sharon) she quite rightly

refused to wear hers. Living in a world where a spade is not a spade, but a long-handled, flat-faced, steel gardening implement, I am forced to admit defeat. Sue Hampton’s column returns to its mid-week slot next week when Rosaleen McCarroll resumes her Saturday column.