Hapax legomenon – here for a good time, not a long time

Depending on your literary leanings, you might think that hapax legomenon sounds like one of the Unforgivable Curses from Harry Potter or Slartibartfast’s lesser-known brother who didn’t get to design any fjords. In reality, it’s a posh way of saying something quite simple. A hapax legomenon is a word (or phrase) that appears only once in a particular text, or even only once in the entire known body of a language. Once. That’s it. It shows up, does its thing, then vanishes without even leaving a helpful footnote saying ‘by the way, this means a hat’. Rude.

words with commitment issues

The term hapax legomenon comes from Greek and literally means ‘said once’. One of the most famous hapax legomena (that’s the plural) comes from the Hebrew Bible. The word ‘tachash’ appears only once (in Exodus 25:5) and refers to a type of animal skin used to cover the Tabernacle. And because it only turns up once, no one’s completely sure what animal it was. Badger? Dolphin? Unicorn? Scholars have been arguing about it for centuries because there’s nothing else to compare it with.

(Oh, and just in case you think I was making a joke with those animal suggestions, I actually wasn’t – proper academic interpretations range from a specific creature like a dugong, dolphin or seal due to links to Arabic words, to a unique one-horned, multi-coloured animal created miraculously for the Tabernacle, which then disappeared forever. Just like hapax legomena.)

Shakespeare is another rich source of one-hit wonders – he’s actually credited with hundreds of words that appear only once in his work, leaving scholars to argue for centuries about whether he invented them, spelled something else wrong or was just having an off day. Like ‘honorificabilitudinitatibus’ which appears only once, in ‘Love’s Labour’s Lost’, presumably because he couldn’t be bothered to try to spell it again. It’s a real Latin-based word (and also the longest word in the English language to strictly alternate between consonants and vowels, fact fans), and means something like ‘the state of being able to achieve honours’. Another example is ‘puking’, which turns up in ‘As You Like It’ and only ‘As You Like It’ (I guess he didn’t like it). Of course, ‘puking’ is very familiar now, but its first recorded use in English is Shakespeare’s, and it appears only that one time in his work.

In praise of words that couldn’t commit

Hapax legomena are linguistic butterflies – brief, baffling and often beautiful. They remind us that language isn’t neat or fully documented, and that sometimes a word pops into existence, waves politely then disappears forever.

The Great Vowel Shift AKA why English is a stupid, stupid language

If you’ve ever wondered why ‘though’ and ‘cough’ are spelled the same but pronounced completely differently, you’re not alone. Why does English spelling have so many quirks/really effing stupid things that are hard to remember? The answer lies in a dramatic event that happened a few hundred years ago: the Great Vowel Shift. Yes, that’s a thing. A vowel shift. Because English, at some point, decided it was too easy.

What even is a Great Vowel Shift?

A vowel

The Great Vowel Shift was a major linguistic event that took place in English between the 15th and 18th centuries. And it dramatically altered the way we pronounced long vowels. What the hell’s a long vowel, I hear you ask? The opposite of a short vowel, obvs. Sorry. A long vowel is one that’s pronounced the same way as the letter’s name in the alphabet, like ‘a’ in ‘cake’ or ‘i’ in ‘bike’. A short vowel has a more clipped sound, like the ‘a’ in ‘cat’ or the ‘e’ in ‘bed’.

It doesn’t seem like much of a distinction, I know. And that’s because of the Great Vowel Shift. Before it, in Middle English we held long vowels for longer when we spoke. For example, we pronounced the word ‘bite’ with a long ‘i’, like ‘beet’. But then some bright sparks started shifting vowels upwards in their mouths. This is called ‘raising’ in linguistics. It happens when the tongue is positioned higher in the mouth during the pronunciation of a vowel.

The problem is that no one bothered to tell our spelling about this. So the way many of our words are spelled today reflects how they used to sound before the Shift. That’s why words like ‘cough’ and ‘through’ look like they should rhyme but sound like they come from completely different universes.

If you think things are bad now, imagine what it was like for anyone trying to speak and spell English in the 1500s. One day ‘boot’ rhymes with ‘foot’, then the next it doesn’t any more. WHAT. THE. FUCK.

But why though?

The extremely informative answer is that no one really knows. Theories range from the influence of French after the Norman Conquest (thanks a lot, France) to social mobility and dialect mixing, particularly after the Black Death and the War of the Roses. Or it might just have been down to people wanting to sound fancier (like saying ‘myself’ when you mean ‘me’ today, GRRRR). Whatever happened, it’s like English made a bet with itself on how hard it could make things for future generations. Spoiler: it won.

The good news is that next time you hear someone complain about English spelling, you can smugly and knowledgably say ‘Well actually, that’s down to the Great Vowel Shift’. You’re welcome.

Pretending to be single

Now, I’m a fully paid-up member of the (sadly, still only theoretical) grammar pedantry brigade. But even though it’s technically correct, you’ll never catch me saying ‘the data are compelling’ – even though ‘data’ is (sorry, are) plural, not singular, making this a flagrant case of verb-subject disagreement. So why do I do this? Because (a) I don’t have any data (compelling or otherwise), and (b) I would sound like a weirdo.

Data isn’t alone in being treated as singular when it’s actually plural. Here are six other words that are technically plural, but that we treat as singular. I’ll leave it up to you as to whether you want to use them correctly, or risk sounding like a dickhead.

(Oh, and the singular version of ‘data’ is ‘datum’, just in case you didn’t know that.)

Agenda

If you find yourself in a meeting and someone you dislike suggests adding something to the next agenda, you can tell them that actually it should be added to the next agendum. Just make sure they don’t have the power to sack you.

Graffiti

Yum

That latest Banksy masterpiece that appeared overnight? It’s a graffito.

‘Graffito’ comes from an Italian verb ’graffiare’, which means ‘to scratch’. And that comes from a Latin word ‘graphium’, meaning ‘a stylus’ or ‘a writing tool’.

Panini

Yep, the sandwich, usually made from ciabatta, so posh it requires its own press. The singular version is actually ‘panino’. So you’re technically asking for multiple sandwiches if you request panini. Actually, that’s probably no bad thing.

‘Panino’ is a diminutive of ‘pane’ meaning ‘bread’. A diminutive is a word or form that conveys a smaller, shorter or more affectionate version of something. I definitely feel affectionate about ciabatta-based sandwiches.

Bacteria

This one’s not that obscure, but I think most of us tend to use ‘bacteria’ when we mean one of the buggers, rather than the correct ‘bacterium’. ‘Bacteria’ has (or rather, have) been around since the late 19th century. The word, not the things, I mean – some of the earliest evidence of life on Earth is bacteria. In fact, the earliest known bacteria are believed to date back to about 3.5 to 3.7 billion years ago. So quite a long time then.

A 100-sided Zocchihedron (plural: Zocchihedra) – picture from Wikipedia.

Dice

Like ‘bacteria’/’bacterium’, I think most of us know that die is the singular version of dice, but still choose not to use it. Because I can’t think of anything else to say about that, instead I’m going to tell you about the Zocchihedron, which is a 100-sided dice/die. That means it’s basically a sphere. It was created by a man called Lou Zocchi in 1985, who presumably has much too much time on his hands.

Scampi

If you have one piece of scampi, it’s a scampo. WHAT!

Okay, this one is a bit of a cheat, because scampi is something different in Italy, which is where this distinction comes from. In the UK, scampi is/are breaded or battered pieces of langoustine (also called Dublin Bay prawn or Norway lobster), which are small lobsters found in the waters around the British Isles. Our scampi are usually battered, come with chips and tartar sauce, and go lovely with a lager in the pub. In Italy and other Mediterranean countries, ‘scampi’ is a bit posher. The word refers to the Norway lobster or langoustine itself, which is usually prepared in a garlic butter sauce, and I imagine pairs beautifully with a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, rather than a pint of Stella.

Because of this, you probably shouldn’t correct any bar staff if you’re eating battered scampi in a pub somewhere. But feel free to do it if you’re having the posh version. Maybe wait til after you’ve got the food though.

Ice, ice baby

A very long time ago (2015, to be specific), I had a holiday in Iceland. And while I was there I learnt three things.

Iceland: it’s flippin’ cold

1. It’s very expensive.

2. There are hardly any trees (there’s a joke in Iceland that goes ‘What should you do if you get lost in a forest in Iceland? Stand up’).

3. When Icelanders want to add a new word to their language, for example, for a new technology, they don’t just adopt the English word as a lot of languages do (called ‘loanwords’). They create a new word (or neologism) by using or combining existing ones from Old Icelandic and Old Norse roots. And they do that in a super-organised way.

It’s of course number 3 that we’re going to be talking about today (as this is a blog about words, not trees or money).

Wait, why Don’t They just use the English version?

Today, only around 330,000 people speak Icelandic, a unique language derived from Old Norse (Old Norse is a Scandinavian language spoken during and before the Viking age, and until the 15th century). Iceland wants to keep their language pure and distinctive, while also making sure it evolves in line with the modern world. That’s why they create their own words, rather than just using our boring old versions.

Because of this, the Icelandic language has been relatively unchanged for centuries. That means Icelanders can still read the original sagas – a collection of medieval prose narratives written in Old Norse over 800 years ago – with very little difficulty. To put that into perspective, Chaucer wrote ‘The Canterbury Tales’ about 640 years ago. And I definitely couldn’t read that with very little difficulty (‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote/The droghte of March hath perced to the roote’. WTF, Geoff?).

How do ICELANDERS coin new words?

It all starts with the Árni Magnússon Institute for Icelandic Studies. It’s their job to preserve and develop the Icelandic language, and come up with new words when needed. So when a new concept or technology appears that they need a term for, they’ll either:

• combine existing Icelandic words to create a new term (called ‘compounding’)

• translate parts of the foreign word directly into Icelandic (called ‘calques’)

• revive old archaic or obsolete words and give them a new meaning so they work in contemporary contexts.

The Institute also takes suggestions and feedback from specialists and from the public to make sure that any new words they come up with are both linguistically appropriate, and will work in real life.

Once the committee has approved a new term, they’ll use official channels, media, educational institutions, etc., to get it out to the public.

Icelandic neologisms in action

Here are some examples of new Icelandic words, along with a bit of explanation about how they were formed.

• Tölva for computer – a combination of ‘tala’ meaning ‘number, and ‘völva’ (stop it) meaning ‘prophetess’ or ‘seeress’. This combines the concept of numbers with a sense of mystical insight or prediction, showing the computational power of computers (also, how mystified I am when mine doesn’t do what I want it to).

• Sími for telephone – this is an old Icelandic word for ‘thread’ or ‘wire’ which was revived to describe phones. The word for mobile phone is ‘farsími’, which adds ‘far’ meaning ‘travel’ or ‘journey’ to ‘sími’.

• Geimfar for astronaut – from ‘geim’ meaning ‘space’ and ‘far’ for ‘traveller’. So it literally means ‘space traveller’.

• Þyrla for helicopter – derived from ‘þyrill’ which means ‘whirlwind’.

• Sjónvarp for television – from ‘sjón’ meaning ‘vision’ and ‘varp’ meaning ‘casting’ or ‘projection’. ‘I’m off to do some vision casting’ sounds SO much better than ‘I’m going to watch telly’, doesn’t it?

• Rafmagn for electricity – from ‘raf’ meaning ‘amber’ (this is because amber was historically associated with static electricity) and ‘magn’ meaning ‘power’ or ‘force’.

There you have it. Before I sign off though, here are a few more Iceland facts for you:

• over 90% of Icelandic homes are heated with geothermal energy, making it one of the most environmentally friendly countries in the world when it comes to producing energy

Drinking a Viking ale in Iceland (although it could be anywhere, frankly)

• Iceland is on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the Eurasian and North American tectonic plates meet. For that reason it’s home to about 130 volcanoes, several of which are still active. The most well known is probably Eyjafjallajökull, which became the bane of every newsreader’s career after it erupted and caused havoc in 2010 (it’s pronounced ‘EY-ya-fyat-la-YO-kuhtl’, apparently)

• Iceland is one of the few countries in the world without a standing army (or a sitting-down army BOOM BOOM)

• Icelandic horses are a unique breed known for their small size, their strength and their ability to perform five gaits, including the tölt, a smooth, four-beat lateral gait (I don’t know what any of that means or why it’s good, sorry). To stop disease, it’s illegal to import horses to Iceland. And, if a horse leaves the country, it can’t ever come back. Aw. Also, more importantly, I’m sure someone in Iceland told us that Icelandic horses have a great sense of direction and can carry their blind-drunk owners home from the pub without any human intervention (apart from getting on the horse, obvs) **immediately googles how to buy an Icelandic horse**

• the Althingi, Iceland’s national parliament, is one of the oldest in the world. It was established in 930 AD at Þingvellir (went there! It was bloody freezing)

• many Icelanders believe in the ‘huldufólk’ (‘hidden people’) AKA elves. So much so that some road-construction projects have been changed to avoid disturbing these mythical (or are they…?) creatures’ habitats. When my sister and I were in Reykjavik, we visited the Icelandic Phallological Museum, which boasts the world’s largest display of penises, including an elf’s. Sadly, like Icelandic elves and trolls themselves, it’s invisible.

Turning Japanese*

There are lots of lovely foreign words which don’t have an English equivalent (I already wrote a post about this – my favourite is baggerspion, which is the desire to peek into a boarded-up building site). But it turns out that Japanese is particularly prolific when it comes to creating words to describe very specific feelings or activities. One of the better known ones is ‘suzushii men’, which is used to describe the cool side of the pillow when you turn it over.

Here are seven more lovely Japanese words with no English equivalent.

1. Tsundoku (積ん読)

The act of buying books then letting them pile up without reading them.

I’m so guilty of this – there are eight on my bedside table alone.

2. Irusu (居留守)

When you pretend to be out when someone’s at the door or calling you on the phone.

I do this every single day.

3. Wasuremono (忘れ物)

This refers to things you’ve forgotten or left behind, like when you stand up on a train and your phone falls off your lap and you don’t notice. Obviously we just say ‘lost stuff’ of ‘FFS’ in English, but wasuremono adds an extra sense of carelessness or absent-mindedness.

This is also me. Maybe I actually am Japanese…?

4. Shinrinyoku (森林浴)

Taking in the forest atmosphere. This one’s all about when you walk through woods and use all five senses to immerse yourself in nature. It’s supposed to be very relaxing and good for the soul.

This is another one I do every day, although picking up my dog’s poo while screaming his name and sprinting after him as he runs off after yet another squirrel isn’t particularly relaxing…

5. Mono no aware (物の哀れ)

A term for a sensitivity to the transience and impermanence of life and the world around us. This one’s deeply rooted in Japanese culture and aesthetics, particularly in literature, art and philosophy. It’s all about embracing the fragility and beauty of life, and finding meaning and depth in the transient nature of existence.

I can’t think of a silly joke to make about that one, so I won’t.

6. Komorebi (木漏れ日)

We’re back in the woods again. This word describes the dappled sunlight that dances and flickers on the ground beneath a canopy of branches and leaves. Lovely, right?

‘Leave it, Gus, LEAVE IT!’

7. Kuidaore (食い倒れ)

To eat oneself into bankruptcy. The concept of kuidaore isn’t just about stuffing your face – it’s also about enjoying food with abandon, even if it means you won’t have any money left for rent or bills, or anything else. Just your average trip to Tescos at the moment, then.

*This song apparently has a very rude meaning, which I’ll leave to your imagination**.

**Okay, I won’t. It’s supposedly about wanking.

What put the box into Boxing Day?

Despite the fact that I’ve had more Christmases on this planet than I care to admit (at least 29), I’ve never really thought about why Boxing Day is called Boxing Day. Christmas Eve – makes sense. Christmas Day – obvious. Boxing Day – say what?

I’ve done a bit of research, and it turns out there are a couple of theories as to where the box comes from. And I’m pleased to say that both are to do with the cardboard (or wood) kind of box, not the punching-people-in-the-face type. Theory 1 takes us back to the Victorian day (that’s the 1800s), when the rich used to give Christmas gifts to the poor. The day after Christmas Day (I’m not sure what they called it before it became Boxing Day – actually, probably just ‘26 December’) was traditionally a day off for servants, and also when they got those Christmas boxes from their masters. Hence, Boxing Day.

The Stoning of St Stephen. Not the fun kind of stoned either

Theory number 2 is a bit older, and takes us back to medieval times. This one relates to the collection box in churches. These were opened up on Christmas Day, and divvied out to the deserving the following day. Hence, again (I double-henced you, sorry), Boxing Day.

Boxing Day is called Boxing Day here (obviously) and in lots of other countries that were once part of the British Empire. But what does everyone else call it? Well, in some parts of Europe, including (deep breath) Spain, the Czech Republic, Germany, Austria, Hungary, the Netherlands, Italy, Poland, Slovakia, Croatia, Denmark, Finland, Sweden, Belgium, Norway and Ireland, the 26 December is called St Stephen’s Day.

St Stephen has the dubious honour of being the first martyr of Christianity, having been stoned to death in 36AD, poor bugger. And in Wales, his feast day used to be celebrated by bleeding livestock, and beating late risers and female (of course) servants with holly branches, all in the name of good luck. Happy Christmas!

C’est what?

I spend a lot of my time editing enormo legal books packed with esoteric jargon (lucky me!) and some of the longest sentences known to man (or woman). A lot of those terms are Latin (for example, habeas corpus, prima facie, ex parte, pro bono, etc). But it turns out lots of our legal terms have also been infiltrated by another language. And that language is French. Specifically, Old French, which was spoken from the 9th century to the 14th century (roughly – I mean the years are rough, not that the Old French was spoken roughly).

Old French developed from Latin and evolved into Middle French, which eventually led to the modern French language that I’ve been learning on Duolingo for years, yet still can’t say anything remotely useful in.

Let’s have a look at Old French in action.

Les mots

• ‘Attorney’ comes from the Old French word ‘atorne’, meaning ‘to assign’.

• ‘Court’ is from (say it in a French accent) ‘court’, meaning ‘enclosed yard’ or ‘sovereign’s residence’.

• ‘Plaintiff’ (now pretty much replaced by ‘claimant’) is from ‘plaintif’, meaning ‘complaining’ or ‘lamenting’.

• ‘Defendant’ is from (get the accent ready again) ‘defendant’, meaning ‘defender’.

• ‘Bailiff’ is from ‘baillif’, meaning ‘administrative official’ (dunno why we added another ‘f’ – maybe so it matched ‘plaintiff’?).

• ‘Jury’ is from ‘juré’, meaning ‘sworn’.

• ‘Larceny’ is from ‘larrecin’, meaning ‘theft’. 

• ‘Trespass’ is from ‘trespas’, meaning ‘wrongdoing’.

Pourquoi?

We have the Norman Conquest of 1066 to thank for all these French words sneaking in and stealing our English words’ jobs. That’s because the Normans, who were originally Vikings but settled in what’s now Northern France and adopted French as their own language, became the ruling class in England. And that meant French became the language of the English aristocracy and, therefore, the legal system, for several centuries.

English (well, the incomprehensible Chaucer-esque Middle kind, anyway) eventually came back into fashion around the time of the Plantagenets (from the 12th to the 15th centuries). And over time, it would go on to replace French as the dominant language in all parts of society. But our Gallic cousins’ influence still remains in the legal lexicon today. Sacre bleu.

I’ve included this video by Kid Creole & the Coconuts because it was the first time I ever heard the word ‘larceny’ (‘He caught the mug who did the forgery / And the babe in charge of larceny’), and also because it is a CHOON.

Days of our lives – how the days got their names

The names of the days of the week are a motley crew – they come from lots of different religions and mythologies. Here’s a whistlestop tour of where they got their names. Except for the ‘day’ bit, obviously.

Sunday

It’ll probably come as no surprise to you to learn that Sunday is named after the Sun. This comes from the Old English word ‘Sunndæg’ which means, you’ve guessed it, ‘Sun’s day’. Why the Sun? Well, lots of cultures associated it with gods and deities, and as the first day of the week, Sunday was traditionally a day of worship.

This was all started by the Babylonians who played a key role in developing the seven-day week. They were skilled astronomers and carefully observed how celestial bodies moved. The Sun was particularly important to them, so they named the first day of the week after it.

The Romans would later nick lots of bits of Babylonian culture, and one of these was the tradition of naming days of the week after celestial bodies and gods. They referred to the first day of the week as ‘dies Solis’, meaning ‘day of the Sun’, which later made its way into various Romance languages, as well as our own Germanic one.

Monday

Probably the most hated of all the days, Monday comes from the Old English word ‘Monandæg’, which means ‘Moon's day’. It’s also associated with the Moon in lots of Romance languages too: Lunes in Spanish, Lundi in French and Lunedì in Italian all have ‘lunar’ origins.

This is also thanks to the Babylonians, and their love of the celestial bodies, which was again stolen by the Romans – their Monday was called ‘dies Lunae’ or ‘day of the moon’.

Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday

I’ve lumped these ones together because they take us away from the Babylonians and Romans, and over to what we now call Scandinavia. You might want to put a coat on.

• Tuesday is named after the Norse god Tyr, coming from the Old English word ‘Tiwesdæg’, which means' ‘Tiw’s (or Tyr’s) day’. Tyr was the god of law and justice in Norse mythology.

• Wednesday is named after the Norse god Odin, from the Old English word ‘Wodnesdæg’, meaning ‘Woden’s (or Odin’s) day’. Odin was the top dog/god in Norse mythology, and was associated with knowledge and wisdom. Much like his Greek counterpart, Zeus, he also put it about a bit (see Thursday).

• Thursday is named after Chris Hemsworth, AKA the Norse god Thor, and comes from the Old English word ‘Þūnresdæg’ (a prize to anyone who can tell me how to pronounce that), meaning, of course, ‘Thor's day’. Thor was the god of thunder, and son of Odin and a giantess named Jörð – that conception must have been interesting. Odin obviously had a bit of a thing for ladies of the larger persuasion as he had two other children with two other giantesses too.

• Friday is named after the Norse goddess Frigg or Freyja, and comes from the Old English word ‘Frigedæg’, meaning (you’ve probably worked out the pattern by now) ‘Frigg’s (or Freyja’s) day’. Frigg was married to Odin, which must have been tough when he was shagging all those giants.

Saturday

For Saturday, we’re heading back over the Mediterranean to the Romans. It’s named after the planet Saturn, the Roman god of agriculture and time (via the Old English word ‘Sæternesdæg’, meaning… well, you can probably guess that one). Saturday was traditionally a day for farming and shopping-type stuff, which is why it was named after this particular god.

So there you have it – seven days of the week, done. Not as fun as Craig David’s, but you can’t have everything.

Horsing around with animal adjectives

You’re almost certainly familiar with the word ‘canine’ which describes things dogs are and do (kinda). And you’ve probably also come across ‘bovine’ for cows, ‘equine’ for horses and maybe even ‘leonine’ for lions. But did you know there are loads of other words ending in ‘ine’ which you can use to describe animal-like characteristics? Luckily I’ve done the research so you don’t have to, and can go outside and actually have fun and stuff. So here are some of my favourite animal ‘ine’ words, along with where they come from.

A word about ‘ine’

Before we get into the super-exciting adjectives, let’s have a quick chat about why they all end in ‘ine’. ‘ine’ is a really common suffix (AKA something that’s tacked on to the end of a word) in English. It means ‘similar to’, ‘resembling’, ‘like’, ‘characterised by’, or ‘of the nature of’ (or ‘things dogs are and do’ as I said above). Technically these words are called ‘adjectival forms’, because they’re made by adding a suffix to a root noun. But that’s very boring, so let’s get to the words.

Anserine

If someone describes you as anserine, you should probably be a bit cross, because it means you look like (or act like) a goose (‘anser’ being the Latin word for goose). I’m really scared of geese – they seem like utter bastards to me.

Aquiline

If something or someone is ‘aquiline’, it has the characteristics of an eagle. It’s often used to describe noses, meaning someone’s nose is curved or hooked like an eagle’s beak (handy for opening tins, maybe?). The Latin word for eagle is ‘aquila’, which is where this comes from.

Caprine

Goats. We get a few other words from ‘capra’, the Latin word for goat, including ‘capricious’ (AKA moody) and ‘caper’ (skipping about). Goats actually get two adjectival forms, the second one being ‘hirsine’, which is related to ‘hircus’ meaning ‘he-goat’ #everydaysexism

Cervine

If you get called ‘cervine’, then you’re on to a winner. It means you resemble a deer, which hopefully means you’re graceful and elegant, and haven’t just been shot in a forest.

Like goats, deer also get more than one adjectival forms – ‘elaphine’ (not to be confused with ‘elapine’ which is for snakes) and ‘rusine’ which comes from the Latin word ‘rusina’, which is related to ‘rus’, meaning ‘countryside’ or ‘fields’.

Corvine

‘Corvine’ refers to crows or ravens. Crows are super clever, and can remember faces. Treat them well and they’ll bring you presents (even cash) – treat them badly and they’ll make your life a misery.

Leporine

This one relates to rabbits or hares, and is from the Latin word ‘lepus’ meaning, you’ve guessed it, ‘rabbit’ or ‘hare’. Hares are incredibly fast runners and can reach speeds of up to 45mph in short bursts. They’ve also learned to zigzag to avoid predators, unlike that dude in Game of Thrones.

Murine

Murine can be used for both mice and rats, although being described as mouse-like seems a bit less insulting than rat-like (although there’s not much in it, to be fair). Tehran had (possibly still has) a problem with giant rats and employed snipers to take them out (thankfully with air rifles, not AK-47s). There’s also a rare phenomenon called a rat-king, which is when a load of rats get their tails knotted together by crap to form one enormo super-rat. I advise you not to Google this.

Pavonine

Pavonine means ‘peacock-like’. Peacocks are pretty long-lived for birds, and can get to the grand old age of 20 in the wild, and even longer in captivity. Despite this, having peacock feathers in the house is traditionally associated with bad luck (although only really in the West), possibly because of their resemblance to the evil eye.

Ursine

If you know anything about astronomy then you might be able to guess this one – ‘ursine’ means ‘bear-like’. If you’re more Brian Cox from Succession than Brian Cox from spacey-stuff, I’m referring to Ursa Major, or the Great Bear, one of the most well-known and recognisable constellations in the night sky (although I couldn’t pick it out of a line-up). Ursa Major is known as the Big Dipper in North America because of its resemblance to a dipper or ladle. There’s also an Ursa Minor, which is where you’ll find the North Star.

Vulpine

This one’s all about the foxes, and comes from the Latin word for frog (just kidding). It’s of course from the Latin word for fox, which is ‘vulpes’. Let’s finish off with a picture of an endangered (isn’t everything?) fennec fox, a small fox native to the deserts of North Africa, because it has the most gorgeous ears in the world ever.

The crowd say bo corrector*

Phwoarr

Possibly surprisingly for a blog about words, this post is actually about a person. And when I say person, I mean massive pedant. Let me introduce you to Alexander Cruden or, as he was more usually known, Alexander the Corrector. Yes, he was so pedantic about spelling and grammar, that he had a full-on nickname. I could only dream of such an honour.

So why have I decided to devote a blog post to Alexander? Because he saw it as his personal mission to safeguard Britain’s spelling and grammar. He even carried a sponge around with him which he used to rub out signs with grammatical or spelling errors. As someone who once parked her car illegally to add an apostrophe to a road sign outside Colchester (it’s Britain’s oldest recorded town (now city), not Britains). Alexander also spent a lot of time in madhouses, which I can relate to as well – it’s tough being a pedant.

Who the fuck is Alex?

Alexander Cruden was born in Aberdeen in Scotland in May 1699. After the usual education stuff, according to Wikipedia he ‘began to show signs of insanity owing to a disappointment in love’ (we’ve all been there, Al). After he recovered he dyed his hair (kidding) and moved to London (not kidding). There he became a private tutor, eventually getting a job with the 10th Earl of Derby. Unfortunately that didn’t last very long, as he was sacked for being really bad at pronouncing French words (in my head he’s like Joey in that episode of Friends). Determined to better himself, he went and lodged with a load of Frenchmen in Soho (I bet there were a lot of baguettes there) in the hope of getting back in with the Earl. Sadly the Earl refused to see him when he returned to his house in Lancashire, marking the end of his career saying French words. Quel dommage.

The Earl’s loss is pedantry’s gain

Alexander’s most famous work is ‘Cruden’s Bible Concordance’ which was first published in 1737, and hasn’t been out of print since. A concordance is basically an index – so it lists Biblical words alphabetically, then tells you where to find them. Let’s just think about the work involved in putting that together. Because he’s a bloody legend, by working alone from 7am to 1am every day, Alexander finished most of the work in less than a year (I’ve been working on this blog post for longer than that. That’s not even a joke). Here’s a picture of the first page:

It’s not your eyes – it’s a blurry picture

Alexander spent so much time on his concordance that the bookshop he ran ran out of stock and, presumably, customers. Luckily he was able to present his book to Queen Caroline (wife of George II). Unluckily she died a few days later (hopefully not of boredom), which meant he didn’t get any rewards. In fact, he’d had to go into debt to get the thing printed in the first place. He did manage to present the second edition to George III (yes, the mad one – coincidence…?), and got £100 for his trouble. Don’t feel bad though – that’s £10,246.23 in today’s money, and he could have bought 14 horses with it, if he wanted (how do I know that? There’s a website, obviously).

Safeguarding the nation’s grammar

At some point after 1754, Alexander decided to add ‘the Correcter’ to his name. This was because he saw a decline in spelling and grammar as a sign of a decline in moral standards. So he went on a one-man crusade to fix it, armed only with that sponge (imagine what he could have done with a Sharpie). He was particularly concerned with misspelt signs, graffiti and swearing. So he would have hated this blog post, for fuck’s sake. He also deleted the number 45 wherever he found it. That’s because 45 was the symbol of John Wilkes, a radical journalist and politican he didn’t approve of. (I just ended a sentence with a preposition, which he also probably wouldn’t have approved of. Oops, did it again.) It must have been quite irritating for anyone who lived between numbers 44 and 46 (I checked and apparently house numbering started in the early 16th-century, so this admittedly-not-that-good joke does work).

Not content with doing all the sponging himself, Alexander appointed deputy correctors at Cambridge University, as well as Eton, Windsor, Tonbridge and Westminster schools. And all of this pedantry culminated in the longest book title I’ve ever seen (take a deep breath): ‘The Corrector’s Earnest Address to the Inhabitants of Great-Britain. Shewing That the Late Earthquakes, ... are Loud Calls From Divine Providence for ... Corrector’s Honest Designs for That Purpose’, which was published in 1756. Ironically, where this is listed on Wikipedia, it’s missing an apostrophe in ‘Correctors’.

Correcting the madness

The Oxford University Press style manual says that ‘If you take hyphens seriously, you will surely go mad’. And it looks like this happened to Alexander quite a lot. He was institutionalised several times during his life. A writer called Julia Keay has argued that he wasn’t actually mad, but was put away to stop him criticising all the incestuous marriages among the nobility, and later by women who rejected his unwanted affections (hmmm). He seemed to have a few run-ins with women who weren’t interested in him, and he was also confined in an asylum in Chelsea after getting into a street brawl in 1755. Maybe he sponged the wrong person’s sign (or wife).

No more correcting

Alexander died in his lodgings in Camden Passage on 1 November 1770, while praying (which seems like a big old kick in the religious teeth). He left his property to various relatives and to the City of Aberdeen, instructing that they use it to buy religious books for the poor. There are now two plaques – one in Camden and in Cruden’s Court in Aberdeen, where he was born (which I assume is named after him – otherwise it’s one helluva coincidence) – commemorating this sadly misunderstood (though possibly a bit rapey), ultimate pedant.

*Did I write this whole post just so I could use this pun? Maybe.