<p class="bodytext">‘English is a strange language. They write CAT but pronounce KAT, and it means Poocha. Malayalam is logical. We write Poocha, we say Poocha, and we mean Poocha,” a man from Kerala once said.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I tend to agree with him, at least where pronunciation is concerned. English is sometimes a language without logic. Otherwise, why pronounce two words exactly the same when they are spelt differently? Take the example of SUN and SON, for instance. Or HEIR and AIR. Or BEAR and BARE. They hide behind the respectability of a posh-sounding word, ‘homophone.’ They serve no purpose other than to cause confusion and get me into trouble. I would ask the experts to review these troublesome words and weed out the duplicates. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I regularly go cycling with a group of friends. We often visit this lakeside café near Romsey, the hometown of Edwina Mountbatten. It is located in the idyllic countryside of Hampshire. I think the best toasties in England are to be had there. Tomatoes, onions, and cheese between two slices of bread, buttered on both sides, toasted to golden perfection, consumed with a bit of salad and washed down with a pot of tea. Delightful, more so after a gruelling bike ride in sub-zero temperatures. I had been there a few times, but always with fellow cyclists. </p>.<p class="bodytext">One day I took my wife to the Toasty café. The sun had emerged after several days of sulking behind the clouds. My wife is not a cyclist, and so we drove there. It is owned by a friendly middle-aged couple. The husband greeted us as we entered. I assumed he had recognised me, having forgotten to factor in a small detail: he had only seen me in cycling paraphernalia: all bright orange and yellow high-vis lycra, wraparound sunglasses, and a helmet. That morning I was in my civvies. As far as he was concerned, he was seeing me for the first time in his life. So, when he said, “You brought the sun with you today,” I thought he meant, instead of bringing your cycling friends, you brought your son today. I was a bit taken aback and turned around to take a good look at my wife. I studied her as if seeing her for the first time and tried to understand why the man mistook her for my son. Then I had the epiphany—it is the short haircut that gave her a boyish look. </p>.<p class="bodytext">“No,” I replied, “this is my wife.” No sooner had I said it than I realised my error. I could feel my face matching the colour of a tomato.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The restaurateur mumbled something, and I wished I were a slice of onion hidden inside a toasty. Anyway, the moment had passed, and no explanation was offered. The toasty was delicious as always, maybe flavoured with a touch of foolishness. All because of a silly homophone!</p>
<p class="bodytext">‘English is a strange language. They write CAT but pronounce KAT, and it means Poocha. Malayalam is logical. We write Poocha, we say Poocha, and we mean Poocha,” a man from Kerala once said.</p>.<p class="bodytext">I tend to agree with him, at least where pronunciation is concerned. English is sometimes a language without logic. Otherwise, why pronounce two words exactly the same when they are spelt differently? Take the example of SUN and SON, for instance. Or HEIR and AIR. Or BEAR and BARE. They hide behind the respectability of a posh-sounding word, ‘homophone.’ They serve no purpose other than to cause confusion and get me into trouble. I would ask the experts to review these troublesome words and weed out the duplicates. </p>.<p class="bodytext">I regularly go cycling with a group of friends. We often visit this lakeside café near Romsey, the hometown of Edwina Mountbatten. It is located in the idyllic countryside of Hampshire. I think the best toasties in England are to be had there. Tomatoes, onions, and cheese between two slices of bread, buttered on both sides, toasted to golden perfection, consumed with a bit of salad and washed down with a pot of tea. Delightful, more so after a gruelling bike ride in sub-zero temperatures. I had been there a few times, but always with fellow cyclists. </p>.<p class="bodytext">One day I took my wife to the Toasty café. The sun had emerged after several days of sulking behind the clouds. My wife is not a cyclist, and so we drove there. It is owned by a friendly middle-aged couple. The husband greeted us as we entered. I assumed he had recognised me, having forgotten to factor in a small detail: he had only seen me in cycling paraphernalia: all bright orange and yellow high-vis lycra, wraparound sunglasses, and a helmet. That morning I was in my civvies. As far as he was concerned, he was seeing me for the first time in his life. So, when he said, “You brought the sun with you today,” I thought he meant, instead of bringing your cycling friends, you brought your son today. I was a bit taken aback and turned around to take a good look at my wife. I studied her as if seeing her for the first time and tried to understand why the man mistook her for my son. Then I had the epiphany—it is the short haircut that gave her a boyish look. </p>.<p class="bodytext">“No,” I replied, “this is my wife.” No sooner had I said it than I realised my error. I could feel my face matching the colour of a tomato.</p>.<p class="bodytext">The restaurateur mumbled something, and I wished I were a slice of onion hidden inside a toasty. Anyway, the moment had passed, and no explanation was offered. The toasty was delicious as always, maybe flavoured with a touch of foolishness. All because of a silly homophone!</p>
