Myself and those kids

What's in a word? Plenty, I say. Equally with the way we behave and the way we think and look, language is an inheritance passed down to each of us at birth from our tribal ancestry. And I'm not here referring to "English". Could be Swahili or Mandarin Chinese. The word is important, even though each generation modifies it in some small way.

But in the language I know there are ugly words and there are words you might think of as being beautiful and/or appropriate. Each to his/her own. For instance, in the first chapter of my novel 'Going with Gabriel' our man is in bed with his new love /lust, a lady called Lucy, and says to himself how nuch he hates that word of four letters beginning with an 'f'. (He doesn't like any of its substitute words either, but that's another story.)

I'm probably in a small minority here but for me the modern word for young people, 'kids', is anathema. In that context I loathe it! What's wrong with the word 'child' or 'children' anyway? Surely much warmer, less dismissive? Yesterday I blogged about our rides this week over the The Fain (cross mountain road, Gaelic for 'barren place'), and omitted to mention our roadside sighting of some wild goats, a couple with their minute newborn KIDS. Beautiful, long haired, black and white little animals, gazing dangerously at our slowly passing car. 'Dangerously' because they probably hadn't yet been taught about the lethal nature of these metal beasts. I dread to think of the effect on Herself, also on me, should one have run under my wheels.

Young goats look like kids because that is what they are. Sorry, America. 'Curmudgeonly' or what?

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