Colourful

Confronted with a topic prompt of ‘colour’ for this literary piece, two different storylines sprung to mind. Those options, waxing lyrical about newly sprung colour from spring’s dawning, or, alternately, relaying tales of the colourful language frequently utilised by my Ossett beau Sarah. 

After a period of contemplation, I decided that although daffs, crocuses and tulips prove much needed chromatic respite from the monochrome of winter, there was a great deal more whimsical mileage in chronicling observations associated to Sarah’s potty mouth.

Hers a cursing par excellence, diatribes oft fired across my bows. Occasionally for no reason other than a habitual preference for utilising a cuss word over pre-watershed locutions. 

Often, though, the harsh broadsides are a reaction to a mischievous jibe from yours truly. A deliberate ‘light the blue touch paper’ comment I unleash with the express purpose of making her swear. 

Clearly, many people are offended by such distasteful polemics, which is their right. However, I find these colourful admonishments endearing. Consequently, instead of reprimanding her I ordinarily chuckle when she verbally taints the audioscape. 

Footnote – To be honest, if I did express displeasure at the improper elements of her vocabulary, she’d only tell me to “F*** off!” A response which, in all honesty, would probably result in me chortling.

There’s something almost poetic in the way my female friend curses. Her mouth becoming an automatic weapon; its ammo swear words delivered with such ferocity the scene becomes almost caricaturesque…… However, I need to take care not to trigger her within domains such as churches or libraries… Not that either of us frequent either domain very often.

Some may deem the joy I get from witnessing Sarah react to my baited barbs as twisted. I make no apologies for this, though, and have no plans to curtail such self-indulgent playfulness. I delight too much in her unbridled use of expletives too much to address my behaviour.

The above might change, though, if her responses to my tomfoolery morph from scattergun swearing into punching me in the face (and/or testicles). 

To be honest, you can’t blame Sarah if she did crack me one. After all, no one likes being pulled up for petty misdemeanours, such as use of incorrect diction or grammar. 

Writing this evokes memories of a spoof readers letter published a few years back in the adult comic magazine Viz. This parody correspondence told of a young lady’s chagrin at her partner constantly correcting her grammar. Anger exacerbated when, upon dumping the uncharitable beau via letter, he responded to her break up communication by admonishing her use of a split-infinitive.

I guess when you’re a writer who pens a minimum 500 word blog most days my behaviour towards Sarah, even though I’m only joshing, exposes me to pelters if/when I stray from the correct use of English pathway… Which, I admit, I’m also guilty of undertaking.

Footnote – For the uninitiated receiving pelters means being subject to a severe reprimanding….. Or “A right round of f***s!” as someone I know from Ossett (whose name rhymes with carer) is prone to proffer.

Don’t get me wrong, the Brookster (as no one calls her but me) may utilise a cargo storage unit as a swear box, but my “Bratford” uttering buddy is a lady of the highest order. 

I have, though, (again with mischief) suggested she let me play Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle. My aim to raise her vocabulary and diction onto a higher plain… No, not the one in Spain where rain tends to fall… Or at the very least show her which way around to hold a knife and fork; or say Bradford without substituting the middle ‘d’ for a ‘t’.

If my Higgins suggestion did come to fruition, instead of improving her diction by suggesting she endlessly repeat the rhyme “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”, I’d perhaps suggest “The clavichord in Bradford is owned by a landlord.” would better serve her.

Anyhow, I can say without contradiction, apart from her penchant for cursing, Brooky predominantly displays amiable traits and, mercifully, very rarely uses split infinitives.

Her cutting jibes one of many traits I bizarrely find utterly endearing. Sarah’s putdowns like those playfully utilised by my now late mother; employed to shoot me down in flames if my ingrained silliness got out of hand. The old lady oft opining of my humour that “You’re a good turn, Gary, but you’re on too long!”

Of the many things I miss about mum, her ensuring I didn’t get too big for my boots sits atop the list. A comedienne par excellence, mater ensured her eldest offspring was brought crashing to terra firma if his playful insults went too far. Amongst these maternal taunts I was party to “If wit were s**t, you’d be constipated!”

This tethering of my occasional hyper episodes something I’ve missed; well, until recently when Sarah took over the mantle as restrainer in chief.  A role my brother Ian firmly believes she fills with panache, and more importantly I need to curb the relentlessness of my mischievous tendencies.

Admittedly, the words she employs in the role are a great deal brisker than my mother’s, but her motives remain the same as my much-missed forebear. 

Unlike contemporary times, my mum was a product of a generation who didn’t feel the need to litter polemics with the f-word, or worse. It’s fair to say, these days contrarian views to mine are delivered with a great deal saltier gumption by Ossett’s finest.

As I write, Sarah is sitting adjacent colouring in a bunch of monochrome drawings in a sketch book for adults. Adorning her specs while drawing these slapdash kaleidoscopic marks, she is only a “Can you guess what it is yet?!” away from forming a Rolf Harris tribute act… I would dread to think of the abuse I would receive if I informed her of that particular observation!!