Colum: Girl Talk

GIRL TALK - Colum

Cleaning up my potty mouth proves difficult

H**L, I have sworn off swearing. And to be perfectly honest, it's a pain in the butt. Or should that be posterior?

Faced with choosing between a New Year's resolution to tidy up my waist line or my potty mouth, I opted for the latter figuring it would be easier. A couple of weeks in, however, and I think I would have a much better time controlling the rubbish thatgoes into my mouth rather than what comes out.

Without realising it, over many years I have slowly turned from a sweet young girl who couldn't melt butter in her mouth into a crass and foul-mouthed Kiwi who sounds more like a Russian seaman than a lady.

It all started over a game of hopscotch at lunchtime outside Mrs Percy's classroom.

I have few memories from my youth but such was the lasting impression of the first time I used the F-word that I remember every detail right down to who was with me and what I was wearing.

Having been a beginner of trends ever since it was cool to wear Velcro Bata Bullets instead of lace-ups, I gathered my small crowd of impressionable young friends closely about me and whispered the brand new word for the very first time.

No context, no complicated sentence structure to muddy the purity of the forbidden expletive, just the one word, said quietly but with sinister intent.

The look of shock on the faces of my friends was instant and rapidly replaced by one of awe and respect.
Just like the Bata Bullets, I had dared to go where no seven-year-old in 1983 had gone before.

What I didn't appreciate at the time was that the first forbidden proclamation marked the start of a slippery slope which would lead to long detentions and groundings when deployed unadvisedly and increasingly frequently in the presence of teachers and parents.

Worse still, it would change my public image from that of a well-educated, pleasant, young lady whom any number of mothers would be happy to marry their sons off to into a cheap Eliza Doolittle in need of a large bar of soap to wash out my mouth.

You know you have a problem when the F-word has become such a common word (in both senses) that you employ it not just as an expletive but as noun, verb, adjective, interjection and command, often all in the one sentence.

Even though my tertiary training and job as a writer relies on the creative and varied use of the Queen's English, my swearing has become so ingrained that I often find myself pausing halfway through a sentence because of a complete inability to recall any appropriate words that wouldn't turn my mother's hair grey.

In a rare exception, sending text messages has provided a way to improve language instead of corrupting it, by helpfully replacing my swear words with creative alternatives.

Friends have become familiar with me being decked off with one thing or the other, or complaining about the shot television on last night or that pucker down the road who keeps complaining about my dog barking.

But while predictive texting and spell check can smarten up the written word, I am discovering that the spoken word is another matter entirely.

Lately, every time I have said the forbidden F-word I have rapidly followed it up with another to express my frustration at having used it in the first time.

The sum total is that instead of swearing less, I am in fact swearing more.

However like all habits, it will just take time to beat this one, and so as the New Year beds itself in, I persist with my resolution and am blo@dy well going to beat this nasty habit.

I swear.