Terribly Sorry

I've been wanting to write about the persistantly apologetic Brits for quite some time now, but have been either too lazy, too tired, or too busy. In today's Sunday Times there is a great little article that does the talking for me, so I just had to put it up here. It's cheating, so I'm terribly sorry about that (damn! now it's happening to me!). The following article is an extract from a soon to be released book by AA Gill, The Angry Island:

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If they couldn’t queue they would kill ...
by AA GILL

Never undervalue the pleasure an Englishman can extract from being both right and angry simultaneously.

If you ever find yourself on the sticky end of an Englishman with a righteous grievance, and you want to wound him mortally, capitulate instantly and apologise profusely — you will see a look of agonised consternation on his face, a childlike disappointment. You have taken away the bone he was so looking forward to picking.

I did it in a hotel once. I checked in ahead of a middle-aged couple who’d had a bad flight and, finding themselves abroad, were girding themselves for 10 days of unremitting grumble and complaint. They couldn’t believe their luck when, not paying attention, I barged to the front of their two-person queue.

Discovering that I was also from home was added sand in their factor 30. A foreigner would have shrugged and rolled his eyes, but I would have to take it like an Englishman — except that I’m not, and I wasn’t about to. I know these people. I know where this leads.

The English queue because they have to. If they didn’t they’d kill each other. The pressure of boiling anger in the average post office is only contained by the shared knowledge that this is as fair as can possibly be arranged in this life. They would rip the head off Mahatma Gandhi if he tried to renew his TV licence ahead of them. The English queue where the rest of the world barges because the English need to queue. It’s the tail of the mythic beast; tails add balance and equilibrium.

So I said sorry, abjectly, to the English couple and I smiled beatifically. Now if there’s one thing an Englishman can’t abide it’s an apology before he’s finished. Combined with a smile, it’s akin to sodomy without an introduction.

For a few seconds the Englishman closed his eyes, trying to pretend he hadn’t heard, but his biblical righteousness was running away, his plug was pulled. He followed me like a puffing, bulgy-eyed pug and said finally: “You can’t just say sorry. You can’t just say sorry, you know. I demand . . . I demand an apology.”

Only an Englishman could have said that, and only someone who’d lived with the English could understand that it wasn’t a tautology or a contradiction.

If England’s default setting is anger — lapel-poking, Chinese-burning, ram-raiding, street-shouting, sniping, spitting, shoving, vengeful inventive rage — many of the traits and tics that make the English so singular and occasionally admirable are the deflective mechanisms that they’ve invented to diffuse anger. The simplest and most straightforward an apology. The S-word.

Eskimos, they say, have dozens of words to describe snow. The Japanese have any number to differentiate rain, the French have a mouthful of facial expressions for “I don’t care what you think” and the Italians a fistful of hand gestures for exclamation marks, and the Welsh have five glottal stops for “I must have left my wallet with my other wife”. But the English, who have by far and away the largest, biggest, most immense, enormous, vast, gigantic, walloping, king-sized, voluminous, thumping, whacking, macroscopic, megalithic, lusty, humdinger of a vocabulary available to any human voice-box, choose to go the other way around and pack meaning into one word.

It was an American who pointed out to me the many subtle and contradictory back-handed and double-dealing ways the English manage to staple onto saying the S-word. He had noticed the light and airy sorry that the middle classes hailed him with when they committed some social infraction, said with a rising and falling inflection like a speed bump negotiated by a Bentley. Sorr-ee.

There are many, many ways of saying sorry. Being English is having to learn how to say all of them. There is: sorry, I apologise; sorry, I don’t apologise; sorry, you can take this as an apology but we both know it isn’t one; sorry, will you shut up; sorry, empathy; sorry for your loss; sorry, I can’t hear you; sorry, incredulity; sorry, I don’t understand you; sorry, you don’t understand me; sorry, excuse me; sorry, will you hurry up; sorry, I don’ t believe you; sorry, I’m interrupting; sorry, this won’t do; sorry, I’ve reached the end of my patience; sorry, sad and pathetic — as in, sorry excuse or sorry little man.

You can probably identify more variations on sorry. Sorry is a prophylactic word. It protects the user and the recipient from the potentially explosive consequences of the truth.

Being able to apologise without meaning it, without therefore losing face, but at the same time allowing the other person to back down, having got their apology, is a masterfully delicate piece of verbal engineering.

The English have arrived at a way of being furious without being rude. If you listen to them complain in shops or restaurants or about service in general they almost invariably start with “sorry”. You know that a customer sending back his soup, saying “Sorry, this isn’t very nice” isn’t apologising, and the waitress replying “I’m sorry you didn’t like it” isn’t either.

If you speak English as a native tongue, you decipher these nuances without thinking. If you’ve learnt the language abroad, or don’t speak it very well, then you just think the English are cringingly, obsequiously apologetic all the time and are possibly the politest people in the world.

The only other word that comes with so many meanings is “f***”. And if you don’t understand the incredibly fine and expressive definitions of that — from explosive pain, to happy surprise, to simple punctuation — then you might also imagine that the English are contrarily at the same time both the rudest and the politest people in the world. And as it happens, both assumptions are equally true.

[ source: The Sunday Times October 30, 2005 ]

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Both K and I sometimes feel like such utter heathens over here because we don't say "Please", "Thank you" and "Sorry" enough. I think I'm even worse off because not only have I been raised mostly in the US, but I have an innate Scandinavianess from my first 8 years in Denmark. In Danish, there isn't even a word for "please"! It is instead implied through tone of voice or context. Americans are generally polite, using the above niceties modestly, but appropriately. That's why when one interacts with Brits, one can start to feel a bit inadequate in the manners department. A typical interaction at a checkout in a British supermarket might go something like this:

Cashier: "Hello. Do you need help with the packing?"
Customer: "No thanks."
Cashier: "Do you have a Tesco card?"
Customer: "Oh sorry, yes. Here it is. Sorry."
Cashier: "Thank you."
Cashier rings up the customer's groceries, perhaps chatting about the weather while doing so.
Cashier: "That's £45.13, please."
Customer: "Thank you. Can I use my debit card, please?"
Cashier: "Certainly."
Customer: "Thank you. Sorry, could I also have £20 cash-back, please?"
Cashier: "Of course. Please key in your pin."
Customer does so.
Cashier: "Thank you."
Customer: "Thanks."
Cashier: "Your receipt and £20. Thanks. Have a good evening."
Customer: "Thank you, and you!"
Cashier: "Thanks!"

That may seem like an exaggeration, but it really isn't. I've been training myself to say "Please", "Thank you", and "Sorry" at every opportunity. It's not easy! K was actually scolded by an uncharacteristically rude customer at the Theatre Royal once because she didn't say "Please" and "Thank you" enough! Admittedly, that's not a common occurance, but it happened nonetheless.

Another example... the other day on the train, I was tickled because there was a murmur of Sorries, Thankyous, and Pleases rippling through the passengers on the train. Some where talking on their "mobiles" and some to other passengers, their conversations liberally sprinkled with these pesky politenesses. I'm not sure why it leapt out at me that time; it was just a funny little moment. Sorry, sorry, please, sorry, thanks, sorry, please, thank you, sorry, please, please, sorry, thanks.

Speaking of which, I must apologize for this very long blog entry. I'm terribly sorry. But I must say Thanks for reading it! Please do call again!

-RP-

PS- For an additional extract from AA Gill's book, go here.

Masters of the Universe

It's semi-official (still waiting for the paperwork)! I have attained a Masters degree in Film Studies/Archiving. The course convenor sent me an email yesterday to let me know that the board of examiners has finished the assessment of my work over the past year. It's great to be notified that I succeeded in getting the degree, but the icing on the cake is that they were apparently very happy with my work! Not to gloat or anything; according to the course convenor: ">The exam board made a special point of noting the consistently high quality of your work, which came close to Distinction level overall." How bout dem apples? It might be a case of "close but no cigar" as far as attaining "Distinction level", but I'll take it! Especially after feeling like my dissertation was kind of crappy. Apparently, it wasn't!

Feelin' pretty good!

-RP-

The Danish Employment System

Well, had we moved to Copenhagen this summer, one or both of us might be going through this:

"In Denmark, unemployment benefits equal 90 percent of an employee's salary up to a ceiling of 14,000 kroner (1,850 euros, 2,245 dollars) a month.

The flexibility of the Danish labour market model, dubbed "flexsecurity", enables employers to hire and fire easily without having to pay expensive social costs.

At the same time, employees enjoy a high level of social welfare and the chance to undergo government-subsidized retraining programs if they lose their jobs, in a country where taxes are among the highest in Europe."

The rest of the story here: Yahoo! News - Monday, Oct. 24, 2005

-RP-

Denty

There's a giant chestnut tree in Hyde House Gardens' driveway. When parking our car, we've been trying to avoid (like the euphemistic "plague") parking underneath it. Unfortunately, it covers the area over about three car-lengths, so as the parking area gets filled up, you sometimes end up having no choice but to risk it. This happened to us recently. The B-mer was parked there for a couple of days. Not only did it get covered in the most bird-poo I have ever seen, but it had been nailed many times by falling chestnuts. We now have ten to fifteen small dents on the hood, roof, and trunk lid. Really pissed me off when I discovered it, but I'm trying to accept it because there's nothing we can do to change it (other than spending money on bodywork). It's just really annoying because who knows how much that dropped from the value of the car. Lesson learned.

Bird-poo aside, it is now safe to park there again because all of the chestnuts have dropped.

-RP-

God Save My Country Tis of Thee Queen

As Americans (or one American and one American resident alien), the UK national anthem sounds distinctly familiar. Not because we were brought up with allegiance to the Queen, of course, but because there is an American hymn with the exact same melody. I finally did a bit of googling to find out which hymn it was and discovered that "God Save The Queen" is the same melody as "My Country Tis of Thee". GSTQ was obviously first, so it seems it was the Americans that plagiarized it.

With your sound turned on:

God Save The Queen
(circa 1736/1740)

My Country Tis of Thee
(words: 1832 and music: 1744)

-RP-

My Job

I work for an entity that promotes the use of film and video within higher education and further education. The project they hired me for is one that will put over 3000 hours of newsfilm material online so that these HE/FE institutions can access it. I am a cataloguer on this project. This means that I am creating "meta-data" for the material that will be put online and assisting in digitizing it so that it can be put online. I know that sounds pretty dry (and it sometimes is), but I'm learning a lot. Not only historic and many mundane events from as early as the early-1900s, but also about cataloguing and digitising.

It takes me about 1 hour and 40 minutes door-to-door to get to work (and the same amount of time to get back home). That may seem like a lot, but it's not too bad. One hour is sitting on a train and the rest walking or waiting. I get a lot of reading done. Being able to live in Winchester, out in the country, away from the noise and crowds of London, makes the commute completely worthwhile. As an added benefit, exercise is built into it. I have a brisk 25-30 minute walk in the morning and in the afternoon. Part of this walk takes me across the Waterloo Bridge where I can see such stereotypical British sites as the Thames, the London Eye, Big Ben, Parliament, that strange rocket-shaped building, and the concrete ugliness of the National Theatre complex. When I bought my annual "season ticket" for the train, I chose to save the £400 or so by getting a rail-only card (i.e.- travel on London's public transport is not included). This forces me to get exercise and keeps me off of the Tube.

A good portion of my day is spent travelling, obviously. Consequently, the only time I really have free time is on the weekends. During the week, by the time I get home there is not much of an evening left. This is why you'll have to forgive us for being such pathetic bloggers over the past couple of months. It likely will not improve very much, so we are going to have to ask that you get used to it. K just started her job in Bournemouth last week. Her free time has also dwindled to a minimum, though I do have to say that she has quite a nice job going, which allows 1 to 2 days of working at home. I'll pester her to tell you about it.

There are also some really crazy synchronicities between our two jobs, a whole other story which we will divulge in due course. Until then...

-RP-

Ministry of Transport

When you own a car in the UK you have to bring it in for a yearly MOT test. The car has to past the test for you to be able to get your "tax disk", which is similar to the US's "registration". The MOT costs £44.15 and the tax disk fee is based on the size of the engine (our 1990cc BMW costs about £91 for a 6-month registration, about £170 for 12 months). If you don't have a valid MOT and tax disk, you are not allowed to drive the car.

Our MOT and tax is due as of yesterday. If we were sensible people, we would have taken care of this earlier. In fact, last weekend I was planning on coaxing K into bringing the car in to a test centre on Monday, but I pretty much forgot all about it until Wednesday. On Thursday, we made an appointment for the MOT test on Friday. A mere formality. However, it did not pass the test because a tail-light was out, the right headlight was misaligned, and the rear passenger-side tire was splitting along the sidewall. So, we had to leave the car with them. They have ordered a tire, but because BMWs are finicky, it is a special size that they cannot get until Monday. Therefore, we will not have it back until Monday evening, which means Kristen will have to take the train to Bournemouth for her first day of work. A bit of a nuisance, but what can one do?

Well, at least it is just minor. Though the new tire is a bit pricey, it could have been a lot worse. And I know they're not trying to swindle us because I was aware that one of the tires was nearing the end of its life and we have been beamed a few times by oncoming vehicles, so I guess that was because of the misaligned headlight.

That's cars for ya... it's the surprises that make you question whether or not it is worth having one in the first place!

-RP-