"Words can fall short/Can't see the unseen"

Please forgive me quoting Jack Johnson. I liked him when I was 14, alright?

But his words are the words that explain my current feelings about... words. How often is it we can't 'find the words to say' something or other? Or look back on the words we did use, and wish to God we could go back in time and choose some different ones?

I wonder almost constantly what the result would have been, of conversations where I used 'favourite' instead of 'current'; where I used 'love' instead of 'like', even 'love' instead of 'hate'. What if I had talked about music instead of the time in primary school where someone took all lunch time in the lav? What if I used the word 'lav' instead of 'bog' or 'loo'?

Sometimes, even simpler than that, I wish I'd said nothing, instead of something, or vice versa. I wish I'd said more, or less, or everything I felt.

But I didn't, and I don't, and I never will. And it isn't my regret that defines the way I come across; it's the words that you heard, or read. I mean, you didn't leave thinking 'What she really wanted to say was...'; you left thinking 'When she said that, it was a bit weird/really uncomfortable/the end of my world/unspeakably stupid of her...'

So, maybe, if you read these, and something I said to you once upon a time wasn't what you wanted, or what you expected, then maybe I was thinking about it saying whatever it was that you wanted, and decided against it, or only thought of it later. And if you ever really wanted to say anything to me, anything at all, feel free. Nobody enjoys that regret, and, at the end of the day, and the end of the week, and the end of the year, you tend to realise there was no real reason not to say it apart from the immediate fallout. So go on. I won't laugh.

I mean, come on, they're only words.
Sq.

Hurdling the Language Barrier

So, I have returned.

Last night, I flew in from Italy, back to the chilly evenings and cloudy afternoons of England. My holiday was lovely, thanks, and also rather enlightening on the subject of different languages.

You see, before going to Italy, I had never spoken any more Italian than 'Grazzi' (Sp?), and wasn't really sure how I was going to get along. In France, it was different; a 5 year course of French-speaking pills had given me enough grounding to get by, but in Italy, I was stone-cold English. However, this week I spoke far more Italian than I spoke French (in France).

I think what it's really down to is the people. In France (and this is not to their detriment, England is undoubtedly the same in many cases) you feel that if you aren't speaking perfect French, they're having a good laugh at you. I think maybe it's because they don't smile so much... they seem a little dry sometimes. In Italy, however, they are much more welcoming, and encourage an effort to speak their language. During my brief time there, we visited mutual relatives (even though that isn't technically a thing) who were native Italians, and despite the obvious Berlin-wall of a language barrier, we got along pretty much 'just fine'.

Now, this may have been helped by the fact that Italian schools teach English. In fact, this does seem to be a trend running through pretty much all of the world. Some would say it's better that way, but I personally feel, when I see a sign in English, or have a shop assistant switch to English because i so obviously 'sound' (or 'look') English, that I have failed or am being something of an awkward customer.

Anyway, as far as words go, it was a pretty damn good experience. I can now say a few basic things in the language, and am eager to learn more so I can go back and have a good conversation with everyone there.

Is it good to be back in England? I don't know. I cast my eyes out of the skylight and it's a never-changing grey, varied only by the large rain droplets clinging to the pane.
Home sweet home. I've missed you.

SQ. x