We get a lot of words from Latin.
Where’d they get ‘em?
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This past summer Sarah spent a week at her mother’s in rural Saskatchewan getting fitted her wedding dress. She came home at the end of it with some books from her childhood. As a result of this, over the course of the late fall and into early winter, I managed to read every Sherlock Holmes book in existence, in order.
Yay for me. Indeed.
Every Sherlock story includes the word singular in one of its varied forms. Could be near the beginning. Could be in the final sentence. But it’s at least once. Sometimes more than once. Occasionally in the same sentence (’Singular, most singular!’).
This was not a new word to me, by any stretch. But I’d never encountered it in such abundance. When I’d finished the first volume of the stories, Sarah started it and I read the second. We would sit there reading and yell ’singular!’ whenever it was encountered. I was thoroughly tired of it by the end of the second tome.
And thought I could look forward to a good long rest from that particular word.
Boy, I can’t tell you how happy I am that I’m wrong.
First, Sarah’s only just last week finished reading the second volume. So that particular exercise lasted for some time.
Second, there is no escape from this seemingly harmless little word! It sneaks in everywhere! It doesn’t matter if I’m reading a Canadian, American, or British author. They all use it. It popped up in Ann-Marie MacDonald’s Fall on Your Knees. It popped up in some fluffy little murder mystery called Killer Pancake. Neil Gaiman’s American Gods had it once, and twice in Clara Callan by Richard B. Wright. It popped up in From a Buick 8 (Stephen King). It even came up once in The Princess Bride! (That’s right: it was a book first.)
What really galls me is that I’ll say to Sarah something like, ‘This could be the book that breaks the spell.’ And the next thing I know I’m calling her from work to yell ’singular!’ into the voicemail while she’s on the phone with her mother (who I still blame for this whole mess in the first place)!
Will this singular tortured never end!
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Last night, back at my sometime retail job, I was passed a counterfeit $20. The guy looked kind of shady, he had a friend waiting outside. The bill was pretty obviously bad, but working alone, I didn’t want to risk anything. I got a good look at him, and was pretty careful with the $20.
After he left I called the police. You’d think they’d care, right?
What actually happened was the friendly little guy who answered the phone gave me the number for the Financial Crimes Unit, telling me to call back this morning after 10:00. The store opens at 11:00, so I just went back in then. And called the Financial Crimes Unit.
You’d think they’d care, right?
What they told me to do is have one of the store’s owners just take the bad bill to the bank. The bank would then call the RCMP who would ship the bill off to Ottawa to be filed away after being put in a database or two.
I protested this.
“But I have a pretty good description of the guy.”
“Do you know his name?” the police woman asked.
“No.”
“Then just take the bill to the bank.”
“But it’s just inkjet paper; it should hold prints pretty well.”
“Just take the bill to the bank.”
I explained that I was under the impression that this guy wasn’t just innocent in this. He was a little suspicious. And, were he not the person who created the bad bill, he would pretty certainly know who would. I could give a description, look at photos, if they wanted.
“Just take the bill to the bank.”
Oy vey!
As I understand it, counterfeiting is a financial crime. I was talking to the Financial Crime people about it.
And they didn’t give a proverbial rat’s rump.
I’ve always had some pretty good experiences with the Vancouver Police Department. They’re always there when you need them. And sometimes if you don’t (that was a fun night!).
It wasn’t explained to me why they didn’t care, wouldn’t or couldn’t do anything about it. If counterfeiting is a federal thing, then why is there a Financial Crime unit? Should I call the RCMP?
“Just take the bill to the bank.”
So I got up early, went back into work on my day off (so I’ve got six days off; who asked you?). Was all prepared to spend a couple of hours waiting for and talking to the VPD. All for naught. I didn’t even need to be the person to call them. They didn’t even need to be called!
So I ask you: Gibby, what up?
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