Dictionary hopping

As a child, LATW was not particularly popular. It might have been something to do with its ridiculous lankiness (where its height to weight ratio plummeted within days of the voice breaking) and the local outbreaks on its face of what could only be described as spots. In fact, it got to one point, once the bullying had started, LATW told its aunty how bad the situation was to be greeted with the possibly obligatory "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" reply, thus making that physical abuse all the more endurable. So there LATW was, confronted by its tormentors, just about to knock seven shades of the pooey stuff out of me when it repeated what aunty had told it just days before: "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me." At this point, I should probably applaud the bullies, for, using both quick wit and intelligence (two characteristics not normally associated with bullies) they proceeded to find half-bricks and throw those, the logic presumably being "he's right you know - words can't hurt him..."

As a result of years of this kind of treatment, therefore, I became somewhat of a recluse - not venturing out of the house and not doing much, in fact, except read my dictionary. Though this might seem somewhat strange, the months of enjoyment I got out of reading the dictionary (and other associated dictionary practises, like word-counting and dictionary hopping) somehow transformed me into a much more socially confident person. With improved word power (a natural result of reading a dictionary, I feel) it was suddenly possible to strike down an opponent when things did remain purely verbal.

Pen. Sword. Mightier. And all that.

Anyway, LATW was intending to give you a brief example of dictionary hopping: let's start with redact, which means to put into a literary form or edit for publication. Given that this is a website, this redact business happens quite a lot in these parts, giving rise to articles and, if people so wished, numerous letters moaning about the lack of available car-park spaces.

A car is defined as a road vehicle with an enclosed passenger compartment, powered by an internal combustion engine. It says nothing there about allow wheels, spoilers of the use of one's automobile to further one's social standing, but that is because the notion of what car you have reflecting how brilliant you are is redundant, bordering on facile.

Combustion is more your sort of exciting word, because it means consumption by fire. Grrr - how manly! As soon as you mention fire, most men grunt their approval and long for a stick in hand; saying that, as soon as you mention car or engine, most men grunt and have something else in their hand (almost literally ego-massaging you might think), but that is a digression. The success of combustion as a word comes as a result of its association with fire and cars and also because it is one of those processes everyone knows about and yet have no idea how it actually works: "Yeah, the air goes in there and then the fuel ignites it but only on the down-turn of the piston and then it forces the air out and makes the car go forward." It's a little like cake baking in that sense: everyone knows how to bake a cake and yet very few can actually do it successfully.

After a random page-turn and a bit of closed-eye pointing to the page, we find ourselves with swankpot, meaning a person who behaves with swank. So to qualify as a swankpot, you need to be someone who is ostentatiously smart or showy. I remember being by a swimming pool in France when this woman once described a fellow holidaymaker as an "ostentatious swimmer." Quite how she could defend this whilst sitting there with her considerably-richer-than-you, gold-chain wearing, Queen of the Castle (with belly to match) look, LATW still ponders, but likes the word swankpot nonetheless.

In a funny way, a swankpot is what I secretly hoped to be when running from those half-bricks mentioned earlier: the premise of walking into a bar, every girl swooning and every guy nodding a congratulatory nod was the Holy Grail of a post-pubescent, lanky, spotty teenager. Fortunately, though, I have had my Road to Damascus moment since and am therefore happy sitting where I am, merrily redacting away. Cheers and good health.