So it's been a while... But for extremely good reasons. I got to know plenty more reassuringly everyday pregnancy terms, including lightening and show (don't ask). And after 36 hours, I also gained a very thorough appreciation of why it's called labour. Anyway, the outcome, in the shape of our beautiful baby boy complete with long fluttery eyelashes, was a pretty darn fine result.
When designing forms and laser printed documents, we always need to check that long names will fit. Sometimes there's a system reason, such as field lengths, but more often it's simply a matter of space. The name and address, particularly on laser-printed documents, are often viewed as something of a nuisance - something to squirrel away in an unobtrusive corner while we get on with looking at the interesting stuff. But they still need to fit. I'm not aware that anyone has conducted a review of all surnames in the UK and found a number of characters that will cater for 90% of them, so we pretty much use common sense. We often have favourite long names that we'll use to test fit - for years our old company used Professor Christopher Fotherington-Smythe, which for some reason was always mis-spelled. So (obviously) purely in the name of information design, my boy has a whopping 30 character name that - so far - doesn't fit on any form you care to name. The things I do for form design.
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Monday, 4 February 2008
Great expectations
Apologies for the lengthy delay since my last blog. As those of you who know me will know, there has been a very good reason.
Suffice to say this blog has been incubating for a while. Over the last few months, I've been exposed to a whole new lexicon – one very unfamiliar to me: the language of pregnancy.
Unfortunately, a few of the new words I've added to my vocabulary have been rather too medical for comfort. Hooked up to a glucose drip after my last pukeathon (sadly not a new word to me), my obstetrican declaimed solemnly that I was suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum. As this essentially means 'chucking up a lot while pregnant', I wasn't particularly impressed. It struck me as a description of my symptoms rather than a diagnosis. I was half tempted to respond 'yes, I know, I just told you that'. Similarly I'm currently eagerly anticipating developing the important-sounding linea nigra on my tummy. I'm looking forward to finding out why a simple black line is so special that it deserves a Latin moniker. Particularly as apparently it's not black.
But happily most of my new words are much jollier in their connotations. And much more Anglo-Saxon. In fact the relationship between the medical and the traditional in pregnancy is rarely clearer than in the language. Believe it or not, I've been given an expected date of confinement, when presumably I will be shackled to a chaise longue, perhaps wearing an empire-line organza and looking becomingly pale while occasionally whispering 'oh my'. I am currently experiencing – this one I really love – the quickening. This is not, sadly, a Stephen King horror movie, but the word that's still used for the first baby movements that you can feel. (These fidgets are currently still a novelty, causing me to exclaim 'oh!' and stare excitedly at my belly in the middle of meetings. Perhaps I can justify the consternation by saying 'oh don't worry, it's just the quickening'.)
Midwife is a particular favourite. It has survived virtually unchanged from the Old English mid-wif – someone who is with the woman (not necessarily the wife, I should point out). It probably makes male midwives even more unexpected, but I just love the word. There's no implication of authority there, no doctoring or nursing to be administered. Just someone who's with you.
And can someone please come up with a better word for my current 'condition'? Pregnant implies someone who has been impregnated, which not only makes me feel slightly squeamish, but is a very passive notion. I guess at least I'm not gravide or embarazada. (How does that work? I'm currently 19 weeks embarrassed?) I'm not particularly keen on being great with child either, nor in the club, nor up the duff (apparently related to plum duff, believe it or not), nor any of the other dig-in-the-ribs epithets. I tried expecting with an elderly relative recently (partly because you can say we're expecting slightly more comfortably than we're pregnant, which always carries an undertone of alien abduction for me), only to be greeted with a lengthy (pregnant) pause while he waited for me to fill in the object of my sentence.
Anyway, there's more discovery to do as I waddle onwards on this strange new journey: we're currently being exercised by the differences between a pushchair, a buggy, a stroller, a pram and (strictly for the experts, this one) a pramette. Even here the pseudo science is creeping in, and we're being exhorted to buy a flexible travel system. All of which appear to be much the same thing. Ditto crib, cradle, cot and (I kid you not) baby nest. Sigh.
Suffice to say this blog has been incubating for a while. Over the last few months, I've been exposed to a whole new lexicon – one very unfamiliar to me: the language of pregnancy.
Unfortunately, a few of the new words I've added to my vocabulary have been rather too medical for comfort. Hooked up to a glucose drip after my last pukeathon (sadly not a new word to me), my obstetrican declaimed solemnly that I was suffering from hyperemesis gravidarum. As this essentially means 'chucking up a lot while pregnant', I wasn't particularly impressed. It struck me as a description of my symptoms rather than a diagnosis. I was half tempted to respond 'yes, I know, I just told you that'. Similarly I'm currently eagerly anticipating developing the important-sounding linea nigra on my tummy. I'm looking forward to finding out why a simple black line is so special that it deserves a Latin moniker. Particularly as apparently it's not black.
But happily most of my new words are much jollier in their connotations. And much more Anglo-Saxon. In fact the relationship between the medical and the traditional in pregnancy is rarely clearer than in the language. Believe it or not, I've been given an expected date of confinement, when presumably I will be shackled to a chaise longue, perhaps wearing an empire-line organza and looking becomingly pale while occasionally whispering 'oh my'. I am currently experiencing – this one I really love – the quickening. This is not, sadly, a Stephen King horror movie, but the word that's still used for the first baby movements that you can feel. (These fidgets are currently still a novelty, causing me to exclaim 'oh!' and stare excitedly at my belly in the middle of meetings. Perhaps I can justify the consternation by saying 'oh don't worry, it's just the quickening'.)
Midwife is a particular favourite. It has survived virtually unchanged from the Old English mid-wif – someone who is with the woman (not necessarily the wife, I should point out). It probably makes male midwives even more unexpected, but I just love the word. There's no implication of authority there, no doctoring or nursing to be administered. Just someone who's with you.
And can someone please come up with a better word for my current 'condition'? Pregnant implies someone who has been impregnated, which not only makes me feel slightly squeamish, but is a very passive notion. I guess at least I'm not gravide or embarazada. (How does that work? I'm currently 19 weeks embarrassed?) I'm not particularly keen on being great with child either, nor in the club, nor up the duff (apparently related to plum duff, believe it or not), nor any of the other dig-in-the-ribs epithets. I tried expecting with an elderly relative recently (partly because you can say we're expecting slightly more comfortably than we're pregnant, which always carries an undertone of alien abduction for me), only to be greeted with a lengthy (pregnant) pause while he waited for me to fill in the object of my sentence.
Anyway, there's more discovery to do as I waddle onwards on this strange new journey: we're currently being exercised by the differences between a pushchair, a buggy, a stroller, a pram and (strictly for the experts, this one) a pramette. Even here the pseudo science is creeping in, and we're being exhorted to buy a flexible travel system. All of which appear to be much the same thing. Ditto crib, cradle, cot and (I kid you not) baby nest. Sigh.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Punctuation perils of motorway driving
A good hour into a motorway journey. There's something suitably chilled on the CD player. It's early on a sun-warmed, yawn-sleepy Autumnal morning. The M1 is looking as good as the M1 can ever look: the grain store we pass is blushing in the dawning light, looking absurdly like an Art Deco palace somewhere in a riviera. We're zooming happily past lorries, and I'm smiling as I remember my (disturbingly precocious) 3-year-old niece's habit of pointing at them, telling me that they're called 'camions' in French, and then asking me what they are in Welsh. (I resist the urge to say 'llorry').
My partner is driving. Which is a good thing, as I suddenly wake from my drowsy state to become a spitting, snarling, incoherently gibbering cat-beast. He swerves, slightly, and wants to know what's wrong. I point a trembling, raging, finger at a Sainsbury's van that we're passing. 'THAT!!' I finally manage to spit out, somehow managing to force down the backwash of bile that should accompany the word.
The Sainsbury's van says 'Why not order online, we can deliver next day'.
Which should explain things somewhat.
However, earlier that day, we'd seen a 'Natures best' slogan on another van – one for a local veg box scheme – and that only warranted a slight, disdainful harrumph. So why my headaching, hate-filled, expostulating, expectorating rage at this? I suspect I was feeling rather betrayed by Sainsbury's, a brand that I feel quite warmly towards, even if it is one of the evil supermarket companies. I think I was also horrified that the slogan in question must have passed so many people on its journey from Illustrator file to van livery (which probably didn't happen for the veg box van). And not one of them regarded it quizzically for a second, re-read it, and asked, 'Should that not be...?' Perhaps the violence of my reaction was in fact the accumulated horror I felt on behalf of (or about) all those signers-off, all those quality checkers, all those brand and voice and design guardians, all those people who SHOULD KNOW BETTER.
My poor partner puts up with a lot. Many long journeys are punctuated by irritated harrumphs, guffaws and other crossness. It's difficult for him, because as a designer he doesn't quite get why I greet these grammatical insults with an agonised expression and a lip-quivering 'but it's just wrong'. There isn't a grammar of design (discuss – we have, many times, at length). He will make a judgement about whether something is well-designed or not. But he's unlikely to bust seams when something is poorly designed: just shake his head, witheringly.
It's not like I'm a grammatical luddite. I am happy – celebratory, in fact – about the idea of language as an evolving being. When my linguistics tutor likened people who sigh about the decline and fall of the language to people who can't bear to see a damp teaspoon in the sugar, I nodded brightly. In spoken language, in drama, in film, in art, in lyrics, in literature, in poetry – I love a bit of wordplay, me. Heck knows I muck about with grammar enough. I can be frivolous with a full stop when I fancy. I just can't deal when it's so obviously a mistake, so brazenly a balls-up, so glaringly a huge, careless whoopsie. When it's on the side of a van.
The van in question, by the way, was being towed by a breakdown truck. I am finding some comfort from believing that the engine expired in protest.
My partner is driving. Which is a good thing, as I suddenly wake from my drowsy state to become a spitting, snarling, incoherently gibbering cat-beast. He swerves, slightly, and wants to know what's wrong. I point a trembling, raging, finger at a Sainsbury's van that we're passing. 'THAT!!' I finally manage to spit out, somehow managing to force down the backwash of bile that should accompany the word.
The Sainsbury's van says 'Why not order online, we can deliver next day'.
Which should explain things somewhat.
However, earlier that day, we'd seen a 'Natures best' slogan on another van – one for a local veg box scheme – and that only warranted a slight, disdainful harrumph. So why my headaching, hate-filled, expostulating, expectorating rage at this? I suspect I was feeling rather betrayed by Sainsbury's, a brand that I feel quite warmly towards, even if it is one of the evil supermarket companies. I think I was also horrified that the slogan in question must have passed so many people on its journey from Illustrator file to van livery (which probably didn't happen for the veg box van). And not one of them regarded it quizzically for a second, re-read it, and asked, 'Should that not be...?' Perhaps the violence of my reaction was in fact the accumulated horror I felt on behalf of (or about) all those signers-off, all those quality checkers, all those brand and voice and design guardians, all those people who SHOULD KNOW BETTER.
My poor partner puts up with a lot. Many long journeys are punctuated by irritated harrumphs, guffaws and other crossness. It's difficult for him, because as a designer he doesn't quite get why I greet these grammatical insults with an agonised expression and a lip-quivering 'but it's just wrong'. There isn't a grammar of design (discuss – we have, many times, at length). He will make a judgement about whether something is well-designed or not. But he's unlikely to bust seams when something is poorly designed: just shake his head, witheringly.
It's not like I'm a grammatical luddite. I am happy – celebratory, in fact – about the idea of language as an evolving being. When my linguistics tutor likened people who sigh about the decline and fall of the language to people who can't bear to see a damp teaspoon in the sugar, I nodded brightly. In spoken language, in drama, in film, in art, in lyrics, in literature, in poetry – I love a bit of wordplay, me. Heck knows I muck about with grammar enough. I can be frivolous with a full stop when I fancy. I just can't deal when it's so obviously a mistake, so brazenly a balls-up, so glaringly a huge, careless whoopsie. When it's on the side of a van.
The van in question, by the way, was being towed by a breakdown truck. I am finding some comfort from believing that the engine expired in protest.
Tuesday, 2 October 2007
Hype and hyphenation
So farewell then, brave hyphen. There have been numerous articles published recently lamenting the loss of the hyphen from our punctation armoury. This flourish of obituaries (not sure what the collective noun should be for obituaries: garland? Threnody? Chrysanthemum-cushion?) has been prompted by the latest revision of the OED, which removes hyphens from terms such as figleaf and leapfrog. See this Guardian article (one of many). (Seriously, how often do they revise the thing? Five-yearly, the article claims. I'm sure I see these stories every fortnight.)
Personally, I'm hoping that reports of the hyphen's demise have been exaggerated. Not least because my surname sports one - or at least it does when companies' processes can support it and the customer service rep understands what I mean when I spell my name. In common with other hyphenated friends, I've had apostrophes, slashes and question marks before now.
But my fears for the beleaguered hyphen's future go beyond my personal connection. I'm afraid that I have become a hyphen stickler. To be fair, hyphens have only recently joined my list of Things To Fume About When Spotted On Tube Posters. And they're not particularly high on that list. (Comma splices and inappropriate apostrophes in its jostle for the top spot.) I'm not so worried about fig-leaf vs figleaf; I think either is perfectly acceptable, and the same goes for most other composite nouns. But I have become someone who can write 'we need the up-to-date file from you so that we can check all corrections are up to date' with a calm smile. In other words, my urge to hyphenate (most) pre-positive compound adjectives will easily pummel my urge for consistency into the floor.
It's fair to say I have a love-hate relationship with hyphens. It's interesting that even the mighty Fowler's is ambivalent about the tricksy little blighters. In the latest edition of Fowler's Modern English Usage, there's a lengthy quotation from an inconsistently hyphenated (not inconsistently-hyphenated) newsletter, followed by a bignomous exposition on the subject. At the end, there's a haughty mutter: 'hyphening should not become burdensome'. But then there's the Fowlerian equivalent of Mutley's sassenfrassen: 'But that newsletter… should have been tidied up, nevertheless'.
Fowler's recommends considering a rewrite (eg rewriting early-nineteenth-century poets to poets of the early nineteenth century), which seems eminently sensible, and backs up my own personal rule about difficult grammar and punctuation: if in doubt, cheat. If a sentence causes your brain to rotate screech-rusty cogs in its comprehension engine, it's likely to have the same effect on your readers.
I find hyphenation very difficult to explain to clients. On more than one occasion I've been instructed to remove all hyphens, regardless of their syntactical worth. In one case, this one-out-all-out rule has swept en dashes away too (which I could easily rant about for another two days. I'd blame Lynne Truss, but it's not really her fault). It's a growing phenomenon: lists of verboten terms and punctuation marks are burgeoning – mandates that go well beyond traditional style guides. I look forward to being banned from using semicolons soon – or commas, perhaps.
A quick PS: there's a nice discussion of the issues here. It includes an example of the problems hyphen-removal can cause from Monty Python, which I'd forgotten: the difference between a man eating blancmange and a man-eating blancmange. Perfect.
Personally, I'm hoping that reports of the hyphen's demise have been exaggerated. Not least because my surname sports one - or at least it does when companies' processes can support it and the customer service rep understands what I mean when I spell my name. In common with other hyphenated friends, I've had apostrophes, slashes and question marks before now.
But my fears for the beleaguered hyphen's future go beyond my personal connection. I'm afraid that I have become a hyphen stickler. To be fair, hyphens have only recently joined my list of Things To Fume About When Spotted On Tube Posters. And they're not particularly high on that list. (Comma splices and inappropriate apostrophes in its jostle for the top spot.) I'm not so worried about fig-leaf vs figleaf; I think either is perfectly acceptable, and the same goes for most other composite nouns. But I have become someone who can write 'we need the up-to-date file from you so that we can check all corrections are up to date' with a calm smile. In other words, my urge to hyphenate (most) pre-positive compound adjectives will easily pummel my urge for consistency into the floor.
It's fair to say I have a love-hate relationship with hyphens. It's interesting that even the mighty Fowler's is ambivalent about the tricksy little blighters. In the latest edition of Fowler's Modern English Usage, there's a lengthy quotation from an inconsistently hyphenated (not inconsistently-hyphenated) newsletter, followed by a bignomous exposition on the subject. At the end, there's a haughty mutter: 'hyphening should not become burdensome'. But then there's the Fowlerian equivalent of Mutley's sassenfrassen: 'But that newsletter… should have been tidied up, nevertheless'.
Fowler's recommends considering a rewrite (eg rewriting early-nineteenth-century poets to poets of the early nineteenth century), which seems eminently sensible, and backs up my own personal rule about difficult grammar and punctuation: if in doubt, cheat. If a sentence causes your brain to rotate screech-rusty cogs in its comprehension engine, it's likely to have the same effect on your readers.
I find hyphenation very difficult to explain to clients. On more than one occasion I've been instructed to remove all hyphens, regardless of their syntactical worth. In one case, this one-out-all-out rule has swept en dashes away too (which I could easily rant about for another two days. I'd blame Lynne Truss, but it's not really her fault). It's a growing phenomenon: lists of verboten terms and punctuation marks are burgeoning – mandates that go well beyond traditional style guides. I look forward to being banned from using semicolons soon – or commas, perhaps.
A quick PS: there's a nice discussion of the issues here. It includes an example of the problems hyphen-removal can cause from Monty Python, which I'd forgotten: the difference between a man eating blancmange and a man-eating blancmange. Perfect.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
I'm sorning this morning
So having declared that you can make pretty much any noun work as a verb, I discovered a fairly extreme case in point in this morning's post.
If you declare that your car is off the road, you make a Statutory Off Road Notification, or SORN. The DVLA has very happily turned this - or at least the abbreviation - into a verb. So you can now walk into your friendly local post office and ask to sorn your car. The notice you receive from DVLA suggests that you 'Relicense [and thank you for spelling this correctly] or SORN online or by phone'. It's interesting that they keep the capitals.
Anyway, it has led me to suggest a small modification to my own rule. If you were to spell the abbreviation out in full, DVLA would be suggesting that you Statutory Off Road Notification online. And obviously that nominalisation there, already having been catapulted from the land of verb to the kingdom of noun, ain't going to be too happy to make a return trip. So perhaps nominalisations should be excused games, having once performed grammatical backflips.
If you declare that your car is off the road, you make a Statutory Off Road Notification, or SORN. The DVLA has very happily turned this - or at least the abbreviation - into a verb. So you can now walk into your friendly local post office and ask to sorn your car. The notice you receive from DVLA suggests that you 'Relicense [and thank you for spelling this correctly] or SORN online or by phone'. It's interesting that they keep the capitals.
Anyway, it has led me to suggest a small modification to my own rule. If you were to spell the abbreviation out in full, DVLA would be suggesting that you Statutory Off Road Notification online. And obviously that nominalisation there, already having been catapulted from the land of verb to the kingdom of noun, ain't going to be too happy to make a return trip. So perhaps nominalisations should be excused games, having once performed grammatical backflips.
Monday, 3 September 2007
More reasons to love The Onion
As if we needed more reason to love them.
1 - Gratuitous mentions of monsters. Monsters are pretty much my favourite thing. I'm particularly fond of using the word as a verb, which is more grist to my theory that you can use pretty much any noun in English as a verb and people will know what you mean – eg 'can I window your diary'? It's only a matter of time before that catches on.
2 - Naming of hurricanes. I was talking to someone just the other day about hurricane names and how we wouldn't be too alarmed if Hurricane Tim was threatening our shores - and dang it if they haven't written a whole essay on the subject.
3 - Anyone who sells t-shirts with the slogan 'I Appreciate The Muppets On A Much Deeper Level Than You' deserves plentiful oodles of love and devotion. I'll even forgive them their capitalisation.
1 - Gratuitous mentions of monsters. Monsters are pretty much my favourite thing. I'm particularly fond of using the word as a verb, which is more grist to my theory that you can use pretty much any noun in English as a verb and people will know what you mean – eg 'can I window your diary'? It's only a matter of time before that catches on.
2 - Naming of hurricanes. I was talking to someone just the other day about hurricane names and how we wouldn't be too alarmed if Hurricane Tim was threatening our shores - and dang it if they haven't written a whole essay on the subject.
3 - Anyone who sells t-shirts with the slogan 'I Appreciate The Muppets On A Much Deeper Level Than You' deserves plentiful oodles of love and devotion. I'll even forgive them their capitalisation.
Monday, 23 July 2007
Just not necessary
"Call us with your bank details and don't worry – we'll update your Direct Debit for you. All you need to do is relax."
Well, I'm afraid I've decided not to relax. I've decided to have a little rant.
Of course you'll update my Direct Debit. It's your (company's) job. And as far as I can see, it ain't hard. You're not doing me a massive favour. I'm not about to put my feet up with a cup of chamomile and fondly imagine that you're diligently writing a lengthy missive in finest copperplate and/or A negative, and delivering it to my home branch on windswept horseback, perhaps following an extended chase scene with impending wolves and yetis. I don't think the world's a better place because you're in it.
I'm really not impressed. It's 14 characters on an online form.
It's not because you're making an everest out of the everyday. It's not even because the last time I updated my Direct Debit details, you continued to debit the wrong account for six months. It's because you've added that text for the sake of it. You're bigging up something that's inherently unbigupable. Someone, somewhere (and I don't think it was anyone I know) suggested that your tone of voice was friendly and chatty, and so you're clutching at every conceivable opportunity to add some fluffiness.
It goes along with "we'd be delighted to help in any way we can". (No you won't be delighted. You'll be moderately cheery at best.) Or "we're happy to tell you we'll be sending your vouchers soon!" (Well, I'm glad you're happy, but I signed up to this card to get the vouchers, so they're not exactly coming as a great big birthday-cake-shaped surprise).
It's pointless. It's making me unnecessarily testy on a fine July afternoon. I had to tut twice, and I'm using more italic than I normally do in a year. The fact that you're claiming you can correctly fill in a form on-screen is not, not, not building my brand loyalty. The company that sent me a nastily type-set, terse, but factually correct letter within a day confirming my details, and then correctly switched my bank account without a murmur – you know what? They got my vote.
I'm currently visualising you as an unpleasantly over-familiar uncle. Probably one who's about to reverse into my car while gurning clammily out of the window.
I bet that wasn't in your brand guidelines.
Well, I'm afraid I've decided not to relax. I've decided to have a little rant.
Of course you'll update my Direct Debit. It's your (company's) job. And as far as I can see, it ain't hard. You're not doing me a massive favour. I'm not about to put my feet up with a cup of chamomile and fondly imagine that you're diligently writing a lengthy missive in finest copperplate and/or A negative, and delivering it to my home branch on windswept horseback, perhaps following an extended chase scene with impending wolves and yetis. I don't think the world's a better place because you're in it.
I'm really not impressed. It's 14 characters on an online form.
It's not because you're making an everest out of the everyday. It's not even because the last time I updated my Direct Debit details, you continued to debit the wrong account for six months. It's because you've added that text for the sake of it. You're bigging up something that's inherently unbigupable. Someone, somewhere (and I don't think it was anyone I know) suggested that your tone of voice was friendly and chatty, and so you're clutching at every conceivable opportunity to add some fluffiness.
It goes along with "we'd be delighted to help in any way we can". (No you won't be delighted. You'll be moderately cheery at best.) Or "we're happy to tell you we'll be sending your vouchers soon!" (Well, I'm glad you're happy, but I signed up to this card to get the vouchers, so they're not exactly coming as a great big birthday-cake-shaped surprise).
It's pointless. It's making me unnecessarily testy on a fine July afternoon. I had to tut twice, and I'm using more italic than I normally do in a year. The fact that you're claiming you can correctly fill in a form on-screen is not, not, not building my brand loyalty. The company that sent me a nastily type-set, terse, but factually correct letter within a day confirming my details, and then correctly switched my bank account without a murmur – you know what? They got my vote.
I'm currently visualising you as an unpleasantly over-familiar uncle. Probably one who's about to reverse into my car while gurning clammily out of the window.
I bet that wasn't in your brand guidelines.
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