WordSmith

Lost in transatlantic translation

I'm browsing a mega-store in Cavan, Ireland, when a shoal of ocean creatures leapt from the shelves and smacked me in the face. Once recovered, I said aloud, "They're still marketing these creatures to kids!" Dear reader, I need to talk to you about Sea Monkeys.

These water-critters were zealously marketed to kids of my generation via advertisements on the back pages of our Marvel comics. I yearned to own a family of humanoid creatures which we were told were, "So eager to please, they can even be trained."

But there was a barrier between us: The Atlantic Ocean. With my sister's support, a postal-order winged its way to the USA to purchase my pets – my Christmas present to myself.

That Christmas was to be momentous, for Town Granny would be making her inaugural visit to Manchester. We all prepared to be on our best behaviour to make a good impression.

Our house gleamed on the day of Granny's arrival. Mam, always meticulous with housework, had gone into overdrive.

Dad went to pick Granny up; when we heard the key in the door, we stood like subjects about to meet their Queen. Granny observed our surroundings with an imperious eye, before focussing on Mam, "The Aeroplane's a great invention altogether," she said. Mam nudged me, and I launched into my greeting, "Welcome to Manchester Granny." She nodded, "Thank you, Son."

I sat down and Dad handed me a parcel, "This came for you this morning." When I saw the U.S. Post Mark, my hair prickled and my heart soared – my Sea Monkeys had arrived.

My excitement needed an outlet, and it spilt out in exultant over-greeting for Granny, "It's lovely to have you Granny, we'll have a great Christmas together."

Granny mistook my excitement at receiving my Sea Monkeys for delight in seeing her – my new pets were already serving me well.

Upstairs, I carefully opened the package. A kit contained various sachets and the all-important Illustrated-Instruction-Manual; which I began to read.

After one reading, I was conversant with my undertakings. I duly completed stage one: 'Mix sachet 1 with water in a bowl and leave for 24 hours.' I became riled with what seemed like an interminable wait. But on reading a second time, I wasn't as au-fait with the instructions as I first thought.

Stage three flummoxed me: 'When your Sea Monkeys hatch, they will be the size of the period at the end of this sentence.'

I scoured the end of that sentence over and over; concluding the manual had mistakenly omitted the illustration of the period.

I vented aloud, "Stupid people, how am I supposed to know what my Sea Monkeys will look like when they hatch!" I repeatedly flicked through its pages to be sure I'd not missed the illustration of the period.

But no, they'd made a vital mistake. I slumped on my bed with a whirring mind; until I had an epiphany – I'd ask Mam. She had all of life's answers.

I almost fell down the stairs in my haste to get to Mam. In the living room, I saw quite a gathering had arrived to greet Granny. In the centre of the room I chanted over the chatter – "MAM. MAM. MAM!"

Silence fell, all eyes focussed on me. "What is it, Son?" The questions flowed from me with an urgent need for answers, "What does a period look like? How big are they?"

Guests flinched, heads bowed. Granny's right eye twitched as though it were silently berating me. Mam broke the silence, "Who told you that word?"

A wave of worry washed over me, "It says in the instructions that when my Sea Monkeys hatch, they'll be the same size of the period at the end of the sentence, but they forgot to put in the picture of the period." Mam's mouth opened, but no answers came out.

I felt myself drowning in dread, and in a flailing attempt to save myself and my Sea Monkeys, I spluttered, "Never mind, it don't matter no more." I vacated the room with a foreboding sense of unknowing misconduct.

Alas, My Sea Monkeys were never hatched. Mam flushed them down the toilet before they caused any further U.S. yuletide faux-pas, period!