Jan 1, 2003
My Little Sausage
In the Peak District village where I lived when I was writing my Masters’ dissertation, there was a man called Mr Binns, who ran the local newsagent. Every morning, procrastinating the writing-up process, I would walk the two miles into the village to buy milk and a paper. Plopping The Guardian down on the counter, on top of copies of the local free rag (the High Peak Courier, I seem to remember) and next to see-through buckets of sour chews and chocolate cigarettes, I’d get read to pay. Mr Binns would be standing behind the counter in a zip-up brown cardigan, with nicotine-stained fingers and strong grease in his hair – a cliche of himself, the character he portrayed every day. He would look at the paper, and then say slowly in a voice so gutteral and resonant and low that whales halfway across the atlantic would spin around and rush towards landlocked Derbyshire to mate,
“That’ll be forty-five pee, my little angel”
My little angel.
My darling cherub.
My duck.
My little love.
My little darling.
My flower.
My darling petal.
Every day, the same exchange; every day a new variation on the over-familiar.
I was buying a paper, for Pete’s sake. He probably didn’t even know my name, and yet every day I was his darling treasure or similar. But my heart didn’t skip a beat when he said it. My knees didn’t turn to jelly when he called me those things. It didn’t mean a thing, except friendliness and good customer service.
But that’s the thing about regional endearments – contexts change. Say any of those common endearments in London and you’d get a slap in the kisser, but in Derbyshire, as in other parts of the North, they make perfect contextual sense.
This random story is inspired by the news yesterday that Tesco has banned staff from using local terms for madam and sir, following a customer complaint in Lancashire, after she was called dear by a checkout assistant.
One of the joys of living in this country is the wealth of regionality and regional identity that still exists, despite overpopulation, flexible roots and shifting social environments. Just like in the cab last night, I may be from London, but my northern affiliation shows when I’m tired and happy. When I spend a lot of time with someone who has a strong regional accent, I’ll end up subconscioulsy picking bits up, the odd word, an inflection. All those things, those aspects of communication and behaviour are part of my culture, my country, but represent different contexts.
In South Yorkshire and Derbyshire, I’ve got no problem with being greeted by “ey up, me duck” but strangely the London luv makes my ears bleed. I like being hen in Glasgow and pet in Newcastle, and even chuck in Liverpool occasionally. I like the regional variations in accent, custom, culture, vocabulary. I like the familiarity of regional customer service. But when the fishmonger puts his hand on your arse, you know it’s gone too far.
When I was growing up, my relations (mostly northern) had a whole range of bizarre endearments for me, depending on circumstance and geography. Treasure. Chicken. Sausage. Petal. Hinny. Pumpkin Pie. Letterbox Mouth (don’t ask).
As years fall past, the familiar endearments used become more London and cosmopolitan, but less specific and tender. Foxy. Gorgeous. Darling. Sweetie. Honey. More words, less meaning, perhaps. How very Ab Fab.
What’s your pet name? What do you like to be called? What do you loathe? What do you call your partner/friends? What makes you squirm when someone calls you it?
