Do You Use a Tap or a Faucet?

Britain and America are two nations divided by a common language.

While there is some uncertainty as to the originator of the above observation, George Bernard Shaw is the chief suspect. The plant-munching playwright supposedly said it in 1942, although the evidence is scant. But differences there are, and I’m following in the footsteps of many a column writer by broaching the US/UK language barrier, a subject forked over more times than Shaw’s vegetable garden.

Aside from Americans driving on the wrong side of the road and writing the date — if I may say — backasswards, one of my most commonly encountered transatlantic niggles is the suffix that would Americanize my Americanise.

Idiosyncrasies between the two languages became more noticeable as the Internet tore down international barriers, and transatlantic communication was suddenly achievable with the click of a mouse. Yet, while many social media and writing platforms are American, I don’t feel obliged to use the ize suffix and call my protagonist Chuck. My characters attend the theatre, enjoy a high-fibre diet, and wear jewellery.

Then, there are specific word differences. A dirty diaper across the pond is every bit as smelly as a soiled nappy over here, and after handling such an item, we Brits wash our hands under a tap while our stateside cousins turn on the faucet. Further, and at the risk of lowering the tone, it is easy to imagine genteel English ladies at afternoon tea choking on their beverages when an American in their company announces in all innocence that she suffered a mosquito bite while sunbathing and has had an itchy fanny all afternoon.

Misalignment

While those examples are from the well-trodden road of discrepancies, I recently discovered a new variant of US/UK language misalignment when I submitted a story to an American platform. But first, some background.

Here in Blighty, when a couple sets up a home together, a large chunk of their furniture budget is often spent on a seating arrangement comprising two armchairs and a settee upholstered in matching fabric. We call this collection of comfort a three-piece suite.

Writing a story recently, I added imagery to the piece by describing a police sergeant’s facial features thus:

His combed-back white hair and matching eyebrows reminded me of a three-piece suite my parents once had.

To clarify, the hair above the forehead is the settee, and the eyebrows are chairs. Not quite Gatsby quality, but it did a job.

An American editor — who’d probably never heard of a three-piece suite but would be familiar with a three-piece suit — checked the story. She snipped off that final e, and a three-piece suit went to publication.

The assassination of that letter changed the context of the whole line, and it threw up questions. Firstly, on what planet would someone’s hair and eyebrows remind one of a three-piece suit? Secondly, the amended line referred to a three-piece suit my parents once had. Could they only afford one suit between them, and did they take turns wearing it?

Even Grammarly, that guardian of the gaffe and goof, won’t entertain the idea of a three-piece suite. It wants to dock the tail, as in the graphic above.

Accuracy

To demonstrate the devastation a single missing letter might cause, allow me to narrate a rather far-fetched tale in which a family takes delivery of new seating for their living room after running the order through an American text assistant to ensure accuracy.

The address on the delivery note is apartment number nine, which stands on the first floor. Fred, the delivery man, presses that number on the console at the door, and a woman answers via intercom. “Hello?” she says.

“I have a delivery for you.”

“I’ll buzz you in,” the woman says. “There’s a wedge behind the door to keep it open. I hope you can get it up the stairs all right.”

Somewhat bemused, Fred looks at the flat box that contains the suit. He doesn’t feel the need to wedge the door open to get it inside, and carrying it up the stairs should pose no problems. He shrugs and makes the delivery.

When Dad gets home from work, he is delighted to see the suit has arrived and everything is in place. He sits on the trousers, testing their firmness by bouncing up and down several times. Son, Ryan rummages in the folds and pockets of the jacket in search of the missing TV remote, and Tiddles, the family cat, dozes and purrs, curled up on the waistcoat and as comfortable as you like.

After Dad has watched a film from his seat on the trousers, he rises. His body is not as supple as it once was, and he groans and grunts as he strives to attain the perpendicular. Mother helps pull him to his feet, and as both knees crack in unison, Dad says, “I’ll tell you what, next time, I’ll write the bloody order out myself.”