Misunderstandings, Misspellings and Malapropisms by Vivien Teasdale

 

It’s term time again, when disgruntled teachers and students are glaring at each other across the classroom, parents breath a sigh of relief and retired teachers raise a large glass of wine to celebrate.

But not everything is doom and gloom. I chanced to look at some snippets I still keep from those halcyon days, so here they are for your amusement.

Business students often get the wrong idea about the world of work. One young person informed me that ‘small businesses cannot have special offers to attack customers’. Quite fortunate if you regularly support your local shop.

The Office Shops and Retail Premises Act apparently states that ‘Sedentary workers must be suitable in design’, though also specifies that ‘Clothing should not be worn during working hours.’ So if you’re a budding naturist, and are suitable in design, you’ll be in with a chance of a job.

Spelling errors accounted for many a laugh in the staff room, even before we ‘helled a reunion party’. Apparently the UK ‘imports roar materials,’ and though you can ‘pay your money back in weakly sums’, remember that ‘a cheque is a peace of paper,’ so may be preferred. Besides, an overdraft means ‘you can sing cheques even when you have no money in your account, though a dishonest cheque is returned unpaid.

Marks and Spencer is obviously diversifying since it employs managers and sails assistants, probably because they are moving to a minute shopping mall which covers a mere eleven eclairs. A sweet thought, but I presumed the pupil meant hectares.

Science also got a look in. Nowadays, animals ‘discrete’ their waste and presumably hide in the air, since ‘the troposphere is the third lair of the atmosphere’.

Complete misunderstandings are rare, but I was surprised to discover that ‘lava from volcanoes cools to form bath salt rocks.’ A budding Terry Pratchett also decided that ‘the centre of the solar system is a hot water tank with a metal thing on top.’ How scientists have managed not to find it yet is astonishing. It’s probably just behind Great A’Tun and the four elephants.

Teenagers are often accused of not being aware of the world of work, but some have ideas which could prove … innovative:

Reception is more than always in the entrance. If visitors haven’t an appointment, put them in the caller’s register. When answering the telephone, speak good literature instead of broad Yorkshire. Remember, fire doors should be kept closed at all times, except when walking through them. Equipment for collecting filing from departments includes a trolley, a tray and an office boy.

To improve communication, knock out a few of the managers.

Life assurance is a good idea as it provides cover for death over a long time. When you get a lump sum, it is not to replace your husband only to help you continue living.

Many of us would like the chance to go to the USA, so here are the latest reviews to help you make your decision:

America is typically American and the food is surprisingly food.

America welcomes you to a galaxy of slights and excitement. Visit rodeos, museums and State Affairs.

Prices run from $6 to astronomical for a world championship boring match. If that doesn’t suit, tourists will find pleasure accommodation there.

After all this, you might prefer to sit down to a good meal:

Menu:

Collieflour soup

Corned Beef Ash

Cornish Paste

Parsnipes, Sweed, Carets

 

Tearymisu

Cheery Brandy

The Book of Sand, Recovered and Lost - Part 2 by Owen Townend

The man in the kimono was waiting for me at the bench. One would think his green clothes would have made him seem quite natural in the setting but, of course, no dew-dotted leaves or grass shined quite like it.

With one last glance around, I showed him the book. I was careful only to show the first couple of pages before snapping the cover shut.

“I want a hundred for it,” I told him.

I watched him warily as he reached inside his kimono and produced a silver cashmere purse. He filled my hand with notes. I counted them twice before passing the Book of Sand to him. As he began to riffle through the pages, I stood up and hurried away.

“Why do you run?” he asked me.

I glanced back once. “Don’t question my motive. The book is yours now.”

He said nothing else, just left me to run as fast as I could. Of course my suspicious behaviour might have prompted him to check the book but then I could tell he was an idle sort. He had his thick leatherbound tome for display purposes so why worry himself with page numbers and narrative consistency?

As I reached the bakery and placed my order, I earnestly hoped never to see the fool again. Of course, my irrational fear was nothing compared to fate’s irascibility.

Barely a week later, I was confronted by the man in the green kimono. On spying him at the entrance, I expected the man to storm in and drop the book in front of me so that the librarian and the rest of the staff took notice. However, his body language was quite the opposite. He slinked across the carpet, eyes downcast and fingers clutching a rag bag over his shoulder. The look was entirely unbecoming. Panic overtook me. What had the book done to the fiery determination of the man in the kimono?

When he arrived at the counter, the librarian had blissfully stepped into the back office. Nevertheless I glared at the man who dared to return a cursed book.

“The deal is done,” I hissed at him.

He held up an apologetic hand and laid the bag on the table. He reached inside and withdrew the Book of Sand. This had ballooned to twice the size I remembered it. While I had an inkling the book’s pages were infinite, this new growth seemed different in nature. The edges of the pages were curled and dark in patches, with the leather cover barely holding them together at all.

On closer inspection, I worked out the reason for his shame.

“You dampened this?” I asked.

The man winced at the accusation in my tone. “I took my bath the other night and fancied some reading material to pass the time. Without my newspaper to hand, I grabbed the book you sold me.”

I glanced around, checking that nobody heard. 

        “And?” I spoke hurriedly. “Did you read it?”

        The man in the kimono locked sorrowful eyes with me. “No. I had it open on the title page when my fingers slipped. The book landed face down in the water and sank to the depths. I did pull it out immediately but, as you can see, the damage is done.”

         I opened the book near the middle, or rather where I thought the middle might be. Each page I turned was as illegible as the last, ink running down the paper with only the occasional word spared. I had, of course, seen such carelessness in the past but never before had it lightened my heart to know a book so utterly ruined.

        Nevertheless I affected the appearance of a disgruntled librarian’s assistant.

        “So you brought it back to me,” I spoke sharply. “A book I sold to you. This is now your property to deal with.”

        The man in the kimono clutched his hands. “I wondered or rather hoped you could offer me another? In its place?”

        I heard the librarian tutting behind me. He mustn’t have heard the detail of this interaction but he stood close by, watching my response.

       “Sir,” I said to the man in the kimono. “I’m afraid I cannot accept this water-damaged book. Furthermore the library is not at present selling any of its stock to the public. You would be better visiting the antique shop near the underpass. I hear tell that they have taken to selling novels second-hand for reasonable prices. I trust these books will be desirable, inasmuch as they will be both dry and intact. Good day.”

       The man in the kimono bristled as I handed him back the ruined Book of Sand. Even so he didn’t say a word as he slid it back into his bag. Gazing down once again at his sandalled feet, he turned and shuffled out of the National Library.

       The librarian frowned at me a moment but then left to perform some other task. Apparently he was satisfied that his troublesome assistant had handled the situation appropriately. However I still had my concerns. When he was out of sight, I hurried out the door and found the rag bag abandoned outside. Peering inside, I glimpsed the corner of The Book of Sand and felt repulsed.

       Though it was undoubtedly an unnatural creation, I had still allowed this book to come to harm. An important book. One that deserved to be known, if only by reputation. Now no-one would know its true potential, be astounded as I was the first time I uncovered it in the basement.

       The Book of Sand was indeed a great wonder of the world, now devastated and lost to time. I have no doubt that I saved many from the madness of its impossible pages but, in truth, I had no right. I acted out of existential panic.

       So I say again, Lo siento, Señor Borges. Perdóname.

The Book of Sand, Recovered and Lost - Part 1 by Owen Townend

 

Call me mistaken or mad but I’m sure I found The Book of Sand. Jorge Luis Borges, please forgive me.

            At the time I was working at The National Library as an assistant, though my heart wasn’t in the full responsibilities of the job. Whenever possible, I would avoid visitors and their confounding inquiries and disappear into the stacks.

            Being a reader of Borges in my youth, I fancied that The National Library he wrote about was the very same that I worked at. Recalling the story of The Book of Sand, I browsed the basement where the book had allegedly been abandoned. I rummaged through yellowing maps and tissue-thin periodicals till I found a damp shelf. It was fragile but still standing with three books on it. I took each out and opened them until I found the one that contained more pages than the spine would suggest. More pages than seemed possible. The numbering was inconsistent and each page contained a different inscription seemingly unrelated to the ones that had gone on before. I had found The Book of Sand or else a very close approximation.

            My curiosity satisfied, all that remained in me was terrified confusion. When the librarian called my name in an arch tone, I replaced the book and ran back up the staircase. I was given my first serious disciplinary but was glad of it. Better to be held in contempt than be allowed to roam in a space where such a staggering tome existed.

            The question became what to do about The Book of Sand now that I knew where it resided. I’ll admit my desire to remove it from the basement was entirely selfish: I didn’t think to mention its existence to the librarian or indeed anyone else. Perhaps they already knew. All I knew for sure was that I wanted it gone.

            For a month after the incident in the basement, I was working the main desk, answering public inquiries that the librarian had no time for. This often meant crazies and fools who wouldn’t take no for an answer.

            My least favourite was a man who traipsed around town in a green silk kimono in all weathers and wore more make-up than I did. Every time he approached the desk, he would hold his head high as if he knew he would somehow win the conversation he was about to enter.

            “I know you are running out of room for all your wondrous books,” he told me. “Please allow me to take a couple of the older ones off your hands. For a thick leatherbound tome with little academic value, I will pay handsomely.”

            For a couple of weeks I refused him, insisting that we did not dispose of our books that way. He was quite candid that he only wanted our discards to line his shelves at home. His intentions were entirely boastful and not worthy of The National Library.

            And yet my workplace pride had limits, especially where the looming threat of The Book of Sands was concerned. My fear was that, if the book were discovered and announced, it would drive well-meaning academics to the edge and be burned by zealots suspecting the devil’s work. Just knowing The Book of Sand existed wore away at my prevailing belief that everything ends and logic prevails. Damn Borges for drawing me to a real-life impossibility!
            However, following the logic of the nameless narrator of the story, I might just spare humanity’s good senses by placing it into the possession of a person who would never actually read it. And so I came to regard the man in the green kimono in a very different light.

            When the librarian wasn’t looking, I whispered into his ear, “I have such a book. Meet me at the park, third bench on from the entrance in one hour. We shall make a deal.”

            The man in the kimono gazed at me a moment with distrust but then a conspiratorial smirk confirmed to me that he would comply.

            When the librarian went on lunch, I rushed down to the basement and grabbed The Book of Sand and hid it in my jacket. Then, when I was allowed to leave for lunch, I sneaked out the back way and ran across the way to the park.