A certain ‘friend’ has been nasty about my style of writing. Come to think of it, how do I write? At times I am quite stilted, at times a certain humour creeps in, but the latter usually happens more or less involuntarily. It’s a bit embarassing to admit it, but when I read certain passionate entries written in my diary at the high points of teenage angst, it requires a great deal of self control not to burst out laughing. I shall never be a dedicated, conscious humourist though,I fear.
In passing, may I add I strongly object to MS Word underlining in red the word “humour” each time I type it out. Twerp!
Baba and I discussed English and englishes this morning, over a delectable breakfast of Welsh rarebit, which in our household goes by the inelegant name of dim-alu-tomato. (For those who are out of this culinary loop, I’m talking of fried tomatoes, fried boiled potatoes and fried boiled eggs tossed together in a little oil, salted to taste. Magnificent recipe.) Anyway, so Baba and I were mounted on one of our favourite hobbyhorses, where he cringes at what passes for English these days and I tell him it’s the age of the englishes and that’s no bad thing either. For one thing, the day of ‘correct’ English as written by, say Nehru, is indeed over, seemingly in
He said, nowadays, very few writers use the old phraseologies, the little touches that made one’s writing more authentically English than one’s peers. To use, for instance “Don’t tell a soul” in favour of the “Don’t tell anybody” more commonly heard outside
I suppose we will agree to disagree. We’re from different worlds, he and I, although he heads the IT department of his company and I’m shocking my circle by getting married at the incredibly young (?) age of twenty-three.