It has been a long time between posts.
There are several reasons for this:
a) I have spent almost two months in Europe, which was one of the best experiences of my life.
b) I have an extremely short attention span.
c) I have far too many hobbies.
d) Writing this blog requires much concentration and brain power, most of which is burnt up in undertaking said hobbies.
One such hobby, which has been occupying most of my brain, is a passion for learning languages. Most recently I’ve been trying my hand at Middle Welsh. That’s right; not only am I learning a language which is barely even spoken by its own people, but I am also learning a form of it which hasn’t been used since at least the 1600’s. It’s not easy either. There are several sounds in Welsh which have no real English equivalents, such as ‘rh’ which sounds like you’re trying to breathe through your tongue, ‘ch’ which sounds like you’re chocking on phlegm and ‘ll’ which is a cross between an average ‘l’ and the sound of an irate cat.
Why do I do such things to myself? Is it pure boredom? The fact I have finished my degree and have far too much spare time on my hands? Have I been forced into such measures by the flood of new digital television stations which have ensured there is even less on T.V. than ever before?
Or is it, as I have long feared, that I am a nerd?
I was always called a nerd at school. And I went to a selective high school – that should tell you something. For those of you who don’t know, (which is probably none of you seeing as I currently have a readership of 8), a selective school is a school for academic achievers who undertake a test to be accepted, and who are forced to do Advanced English. It’s the sort of school where playground bullies can simultaneously beat you up and correct your grammar. As if this wasn’t enough to brand me a nerd for life, I have always seemed to have an interest in highly obscure and useless things which no one else seems to care about.
Picture this. We are driving through the Scottish countryside. I am telling Dad excitedly about all the things I have been learning about Celtic languages.
“There are two branches,” I say. “One is Gaelic, which is Irish, Scottish and Manx, and the other is British, which is Welsh, Cornish and Breton.”
Dad nods politely. Mum is sitting in the back, and has nodded off to sleep some time previously.
“But there are still similarities,” I continue eagerly. “For example, Welsh has mutations; after a certain word the first letter of the next word changes. In Irish they have lenitions and eclipses which are much the same thing. Now, in Irish you add an ‘h’ after an ‘m’, and mh is pronounced as ‘v’. In Welsh you change an ‘m’ into an ‘f’ which is also pronounced ‘v’. Similarly…”
At which point my Dad interrupts.
“Sam. I love you very much. But I really don’t care.”
So there you go. I am totally, utterly absorbed and excited by such things. It’s often a shock when no one else shares my enthusiasm.
“What?” I say. “You don’t care that Welsh words have some recognisable Latin roots? Or that Tolkein basically lifted half the language and grammar to create Elvish? You don’t want to listen to my analysis of spelling differences between Modern and Middle Welsh? Or the indefinite particle?”
Really, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.
For years I have defended myself against claims of nerdy-ness. “I am just bored,” I would say, or “I’m very curious.” But no more. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, merched a dynion; it is time to come out proud and strong in the name of all nerd-dom and say; “Yes! I am a nerd!”
But I don’t do Dungeons and Dragons.
That’s just weird.
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