“Here – wrap yourself around that” my dad would say. I liked that expression – so much more picturesque than “Here it is – eat it”. A number of strange expressions filtered into our conversation from my dad. Coming from the midland city of Nottingham, he brought with him a range of words and pronunciations that puzzled us Londoners. “Twitchel” for instance, which turned out to be the little alleyway I walked down every day between the main road and my primary school. The grăss needed mowing, glăsses needed polishing and căstles could be visited on holiday – all with a short ‘ă’ instead of the posh London ‘ar’ sound.
Eventually, after years in the south of England, married to a West-country girl and with two mocking London kids in tow, he lost the short ‘ă’ and reluctantly espoused the Queen’s superior English. But ‘twitchels’ remained (to the confusion of my school friends) and we continued to wrap ourselves around our beans on toast. We ‘knew our onions’ and, when dressed up in our best for a night out, were used to being complimented as ‘bobby dazzlers’. All these phrases stay with you as an adult and continue to bring a sentimental smile of recognition to your lips when occasionally in later life you chance across them.
One of my mum’s puzzlers was her habit, in rare moments of affectionate emotional expression, of referring to her children as ‘chicken skin’. Where that one came from I will never know! Maybe from her Somerset country roots. Her other contribution to the family vocabulary came in the form of ‘square meals’. Meals, in tangible form, were mum’s province. Dad, on occasion, cooked a fine omelette, with almost scientific precision, but in general meals were mum’s department. However, as in many families of that generation, for some reason, meals were always ‘square’. No-one could survive, it seemed, without three square meals a day. Now, when in the 1950’s did you ever see a square dinner plate? So why, oh why, were meals square?
As teenagers in the 60’s we soon learned to refer to our parents, in fact to anyone over 30, as ‘square’ – but never meals! Isn’t language strange? There must be a reason for this, as for all quirks of language, if you dig deep enough, but somehow the idea of a square meal conjured up something wholesome and nutritious that Mrs. Beeton herself would have been proud of. No junk food or hasty snacks earned the name ‘square’ – but a good solid, nourishing plateful (round) that you could wrap yourself around with the certain knowledge that it would do you good (‘looks good, tastes good and by golly, it does you good’!), that was a square meal.
As for the ‘chicken skin’ well, I guess I shall have to hold on to the opinion that it was some kind of a delicacy that she meant – maybe not ‘square’ but tasty and appealing, nevertheless, - a rare and prized morsel. Anyway, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘sweety-pie’ never passed her lips so ‘chicken skin’ – as my fond remembrance of warm parental approval - will just have to do.
Eventually, after years in the south of England, married to a West-country girl and with two mocking London kids in tow, he lost the short ‘ă’ and reluctantly espoused the Queen’s superior English. But ‘twitchels’ remained (to the confusion of my school friends) and we continued to wrap ourselves around our beans on toast. We ‘knew our onions’ and, when dressed up in our best for a night out, were used to being complimented as ‘bobby dazzlers’. All these phrases stay with you as an adult and continue to bring a sentimental smile of recognition to your lips when occasionally in later life you chance across them.
One of my mum’s puzzlers was her habit, in rare moments of affectionate emotional expression, of referring to her children as ‘chicken skin’. Where that one came from I will never know! Maybe from her Somerset country roots. Her other contribution to the family vocabulary came in the form of ‘square meals’. Meals, in tangible form, were mum’s province. Dad, on occasion, cooked a fine omelette, with almost scientific precision, but in general meals were mum’s department. However, as in many families of that generation, for some reason, meals were always ‘square’. No-one could survive, it seemed, without three square meals a day. Now, when in the 1950’s did you ever see a square dinner plate? So why, oh why, were meals square?
As teenagers in the 60’s we soon learned to refer to our parents, in fact to anyone over 30, as ‘square’ – but never meals! Isn’t language strange? There must be a reason for this, as for all quirks of language, if you dig deep enough, but somehow the idea of a square meal conjured up something wholesome and nutritious that Mrs. Beeton herself would have been proud of. No junk food or hasty snacks earned the name ‘square’ – but a good solid, nourishing plateful (round) that you could wrap yourself around with the certain knowledge that it would do you good (‘looks good, tastes good and by golly, it does you good’!), that was a square meal.
As for the ‘chicken skin’ well, I guess I shall have to hold on to the opinion that it was some kind of a delicacy that she meant – maybe not ‘square’ but tasty and appealing, nevertheless, - a rare and prized morsel. Anyway, ‘sweetheart’ or ‘sweety-pie’ never passed her lips so ‘chicken skin’ – as my fond remembrance of warm parental approval - will just have to do.
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