In which an Optimistic Beginning is followed up on, and Communication is Essayed

So! Despite the obvious vanity (in both senses – or is it “vainness” in the second sense? Surely not) of writing blog posts when I ought to be getting things done and when doubtless the novelty of reading this sort of blather will pall rapidly on both (!) the people of whose readership I’m aware, here we are again.

My. That sentence was pretty long, huh? I don’t tend to even notice that I’m doing it until I look back and realise that I’ve spanned 8 lines and 2 continents, or something. Also I’m tolerably sure that my over-parenthesising is getting worse, with nested brackets and subclauses running amok in the middle of even the simplest sentence. And that’s just in written communication! I caught myself yesterday breaking off in the middle of something to comment on the posture of a by-passer before returning to the rest of the sentence, which was, in turn, also rubbish. Surely this presents a near-insurmountable obstacle to the understanding of your average Man On The Street. Or Woman On The Street, obviously.

Actually, I was once told by my Charming Flatmate Sylvia’s erstwhile boyfriend Iain (there’s a name with too high a vowel concentration if ever there was one)(Oh my goodness; see? I did it again!) that when he first met me, he had to concentrate as hard to understand me as he did when people in his language class spoke in French. I can but hope that this was hyperbolic, since otherwise, clearly, We Got Problems.

Naturally, the obvious thing would be to strive for a Solution. Short, punchy sentences. Slow, careful enunciation. Nary a subclause in sight, fewer archaic words, and a close attention paid to tricolon. Also, maybe I could try being less allusive, especially since sometimes the things I’m quoting (or alluding obscurely to) enjoy a ridiculously limited audience, such as being exclusively available to the occupants of my head. Still, taking on board all of these very sensible suggestions, I find myself disinclined to acquiesce.

It’s ‘cause I’m a Rebel, y’see.

Actually, I partly blame my work for exacerbating it. My manager’s English is so dodgy (his abuse of idiom –“It’s a catch 20-20!”- is enough to make strong men shudder) that I suspect I’m rebelling by making my language more complex at the same time as being sucked into the vortex of his other bad linguistic habits. I fear that by the time I leave this job I’ll be utterly unable to communicate with real people. Like Eliza Doolittle: “What have you left me fit for?” but without the Shaw wit or the Rex Harrison sexual tension, and with the language ebbing in the other direction.

All of a sudden the ridiculous number of facebook statuses don’t seem so bad, do they? “At least there,” you hypothetically say to your hypothetical self, “she has a character limit.” Damage control is key. Alas, something seems to be Rotten in the State of Facebook. Which is to say: my status updates aren’t going into my Mini-Feed, which annoys me more than it ought, mainly because since Facebook has taken over our minds and lives, I pretty much use status updates to keep track of where I’m up to, and without a record of them, I feel sort of adrift, and also because without them, it’s impossible to look at them and tell how much time I’ve wasted. Usually I can look at them and say “Look! You’ve updated your status thirteen times today! Get some sodding work done!” but at present I’m utterly unaccountable, which seems dangerous.

Ok, seriously, this is Just Silly. I’m going to get some work done. Especially since any hypothetical readers doubtless threw up their hands in despair and left paragraphs ago.