Any devotee of TV property programmes will know with teeth-grinding angst the ubiquity of the word “family” – family kitchens, family bathrooms, even family conservatories.
On a recent break in Cornwall, its pestilential presence was hard to ignore. There were family butchers selling family packs; family-friendly pubs selling family fayre – by the by, it’s an immutable law of pub-going that anywhere that spells itself “inne”, has a carvery on Sunday and offers fayre should not be touched with the very longest of bargepoles – family bakers and family fishmongers. (And good luck trying to get the little darlings to swallow any fish that doesn’t come battered and slathered in ketchup.)
I’m sure the use of the word family is done with the best of intentions, to suggest a warm welcome, a degree of inclusivity, a level of comfort and friendly service. Having only ventured into one family-friendly pub, a haven of Formica and sticky pine furniture, I think I’d rather drink in a place full of misanthropes glowering at strangers and trying to do the crossword, rampaging hordes of Hells Angels and incontinent dogs.
A better discovery in Cornwall was on a roadside advertisement offering grass cutting and baling and haylage. The latter, a delightful word, was new to me and is defined as stored forage that is essentially a grass silage wilted to 35% to 50% moisture. And presumably livestock-friendly.
Overheard on a train
First young woman: “So what do think of Boris Johnson resigning?”
Second young woman: “Who?”
Oh what joy to be party to such blissful ignorance of the tow-haired ninny and his foul mouth and grotesque ambitions.
• Jonathan Bouquet is an Observer columnist
