T As the word terns

WO important things happened this week. On Wednesday, national elections were held in SA. On Thursday, a book called Simply English was published by Random House in the UK.

This could mean a better future for all. The author is Simon Heffer, pronounced heifer, a first-class pedant whose likeness should be cast in gold and worshipped at the foot of a mountain.

Extracts I have seen contain words much abused in these parts. One is “alternative”. Heffer rightly states that there can only ever be two alternatives. If there are more, they are options. There were not 29 alternatives for which to vote on Wednesday, there were 29 options.

Moving on to “dilemma”, Heffer corrects centuries of misuse by pointing out that it comes from the Greek word for “two propositions”. If you are torn between two parties that you think deserve your vote, you have a dilemma. If a third or fourth agent comes into it, then you have a quandary. Or a problem.

This takes us to “choice”, where Heffer quotes the maddening phrase, “You have two choices”. Wrong, wrong, wrong. You have a choice. There may be two alternatives or a thousand options, but there is still only one choice to be made.

Then there is “mistrust” (being suspicious of someone), which is not the same as “distrust” (knowing from experience not to believe a word they say).

As for “partake”, it means to consume, not take part. You participate in an election. You do not partake in it, unless you eat the ballot paper.

Heffer’s lucid defence of lan- guage should be carved on tablets and prescribed thrice daily.

The book hasn’t arrived in SA yet, so I don’t know if he unmangles “endemic”, a word often found attached to “corruption”. If only corruption were endemic (confined to a particular region) and not an epidemic (raging out of control), which is, I fear, what writers mean when they make the “endemic” mistake.

I once argued with a child about this. She stood next to me at the rail of the RMS St Helena as we drew near to the volcanic walls of the island where Napoleon met his end. In the air was a host of angelic white birds, their wings as pointy as the cliffs.

“Those are fairy terns,” the girl said imperiously. “They are endemic to St Helena.”

“Actually, they are not,” I said. “They also live in other places. If you go to the Seychelles, you’ll see them on the tail of every national aircraft.”

“Rubbish,” she said. “They are ENDEMIC.”

With one stamp of her foot, she crossed the line from cute to precocious.

“I don’t think you know the difference between endemic and epidemic,” I said. “These birds are so common they have become an epidemic. All over the world, people catch them and fry them for supper.”

She started to cry. I felt bad. To cheer her up, I recited a version of Spike Milligan’s poem: Said mother tern to baby tern, Would you like a brother? Yes I would, said baby tern, One good tern deserves another. Her tears ran on. This child clearly had no feeling for word play.

“Don’t cry,” I said. “Napoleon wouldn’t stop crying either. That’s why they left him here.”

She took a turn for the worse. I saw the captain approaching — a man regal of bearing but short of stature — and left quickly, just in case I was tempted to draw more Napoleonic comparisons that might cause more tears.

From the ship’s stern, I watched an epidemic of fairy terns flying in our wake. Pretty birds. Words can be just as beautiful, especially when properly used. LS degroots@sundaytimes.co.za @deGrootS1