St. Mallory's Forever!

14. XUAN: Port Out, Starboard Home

It's time for some FAQs! Well, AQs anyway. I haven't accumulated enough comments to be able to call them Frequent. And actually, it's one question. So, it's time for AQ.

Why am I here in England? My father's work, of course. He's got a post in London for the foreseeable future and for some inexplicable reason decided I should be carted off to this convent of a girls' boarding school on the Sussex coast, to receive a more refined education than I might get elsewhere.

That was his story, anyway. Personally I think he's worried if I went to a London school I'd get a boyfriend, start taking drugs, dress like a Goth, abandon my studies and generally bring disgrace on his family and country. As if. I would never dress like a Goth!

So here I am. In the Middle Fifth at St. Mallory's Posh School For Girls. Of course it's not really called that. Posh, I mean. Posh is one of those funny words that is peculiarly English and doesn't really translate well. But we all know what it means. Well, the English do, anyway.

As for the girls, some are a bit "stuck up" (another crazy English term that makes no sense to us overseas visitors) but most seem friendly enough. Not that I've really made any friends yet. My problem is, I don't know how long I'll be here, and I'm wary of building friendships only to be told Dad is being shunted off to yet another country, with me in tow. Trust me, I've been there, done that and bought the discount noodle cup.

That said, Dad insists this is a long-term appointment (by "long term" he means maybe two years), so perhaps I'd best make the effort.

Actually there's this other new girl here, Helen, who seems more normal than most of them. We sort of spoke for a few seconds during the week, and I thought maybe we would get on together as the two lost new girls, but she seemed to want to keep herself to herself. Since then our paths have crossed once or twice but apart from a quick hello I just can't seem to interact with her, other than about music.

Part of the reason for that is a misunderstanding for which I'm largely to blame, so I shan't hold it against her.

You see, I decided to go along with this no-speaka-da-Inglish routine for a while, just to see how long it takes this school to work out the truth. I mean, they signed me up for this ESL nonsense, and so they should sign me off. Confucius, he say Let people discover their own mistakes and rectify them without embarrassment, rather than exposing them for the fools they are.

Okay, confession time. Confucius didn't actually say that. My father did. But it's sound advice, I'm sure you'll agree. Except that, by going along with the school's faux pas I inadvertently led my peers to believe I'm linguistically challenged too, so they've been manoeuvring around me like the proverbial elephant walking on egg-shells, trying not to use big words in my company.

So earlier today I had to set the record straight, with a lesson on the history of navigation. As in boats and ships.

Sorry. I can see you're now as confused as they were. Allow me to explain.

I'm an etymologist. Or more accurately, I'm interested in etymology, which is the study of the origins of words. I'm not sure what qualifications you need to actually be one, and there's probably an age restriction anyway. Honestly, I have never known a country like Britain for silly age restrictions. You can get married at sixteen, but can't drive a car until you're seventeen and can't drink alcohol in a bar until you're eighteen. Go figure!

Anyway, back to the point. One of the advantages of being a polyglot (which by the way is just a fancy word for speaking more than one language) is finding how different languages often have common origins and use very similar words.

But some words, like posh, originated as acronyms. That is, words made up of initials. This I explained to an astonished Middle Fifth this evening, much to their befuddlement.

It began with Georgia and Philippa making fun of Christie while she was on the phone to her parents. Christie really is posh, you see. As in, really, really posh. And while she likes to pretend she's one of the girls, when she talks to her parents she has to be her real self.

Or maybe the Christie we see every day is the real Christie and she play-acts for her parents. I suppose that's a possibility.

Anyway, as soon as Christie turned her mobile off Georgia and Philippa set to with Tom Brown's Schooldays style cries of "Fag! Fag! One needs an errand running. Fag!" in exaggerated upper class accents which had most of us in giggles. Except Christie.

"Grow up, can't you?" she fumed. "I'm no posher than the rest of you."

"One is no posher than the rest of one's subjects," mimicked Teresa. That's the one they call Don Pedro by the way. Something to do with Shakespeare, I think. I haven't quite got my head round that yet.

Anyway, Georgia then piped up, "Posher isn't a proper word."

"Nor is posh, strictly speaking," I said. "It's an acronym."

All eyes turned on me, as if I'd just said something totally outrageous. I forced an innocent smile. "Just saying."

"You know what an acronym is?" Philippa stared at me. "I thought you didn't speak English."

"I never said that," I replied. "You just assumed it, based on erroneous and entirely circumstantial evidence."

Mouths fell open like a fly-swallowing event.

"But you go to ESL classes," Georgia ventured at last.

"It's a long story," I said, and proceeded to delight them with the background of how I came to be reading Spot the Dog in ESL. Then I explained the etymology of the word posh. They really loved that.

"Port out, starboard home!" shouted Teresa as Abby entered the room, looking most surprised to see me laughing and joking with her little clique, and I had to explain everything all over again.

And in case you're wondering, posh is all to do with the earliest ships and boats. But I'll tell you about it in another post. Tonight I'm going to sit back and enjoy my small victory.

I mean, I've formed a bond of sorts with Abby and her friends. I'm not a foreigner anymore!

Now if I could just find a way to bring Helen and Abby together.

Trouble is, they always seem to be at each other's throats. I've no idea where Abby was this evening – she and the other girls are usually inseparable - but it's a dead cert Helen was all alone in her cubie.

How to get Abby and Helen to be friends? That's something even Confucius hasn't got an answer to.