Last updated 05:39, Friday, 04 July 2008

It doesn’t do to be a plain speaker. Just ask Pam. A lifetime of speaking her mind – in a well-mannered way, of course – has been tipped right off kilter. And she’s not happy.

In fact, had Pam not been driven by exasperation to challenge her challengers – speaking plainly with gathering speed and rising volume – she’d have been left speechless. And who could have blamed her for that?

Pam is a lady making the most of retirement years. In many ways hers is a life to be envied. She’s having a splendid time; travelling, lunching, learning new things, exploring other cultures, doing her bit for her city and community, studying history.

Women such as her remind us that there’s a lot to recommend retirement. Much more than golf and whist drives. When used to full advantage it’s a great opportunity to do all the things you should have done when you were young but couldn’t be bothered – on account of hormones and cider. But you have to remember to watch your language. Or even learn a new one.

Enrolling enthusiastically on an Egyptology course at Higham Hall, the adult education centre near Cockermouth, Pam was eager to be fascinated by the mysteries of hieroglyphics, to delve into the detail of ancient civilisation and marvel at the achievements of pharaohs immortalised by the remarkable preservation of their mummies – the oldest of these being a 5,000-year-old chap one known as Ginger.

“Only we weren’t able to use his name until the whole class had agreed that no one was likely to object to saying it,” said the otherwise speechless Pam.

“Saying what?”

“Ginger.”

“What’s wrong with Ginger?”

“Bad language, apparently. Could be offensive.”

“He’s not likely to complain, is he? He’s been dead 5,000 years.”

But even that brought those plain-speaking Cumbrian Egyptology students to another tricky glitch in the proceedings. The oldest known mummy – the one offensively nicknamed Ginger by politically-incorrect archaeologists – is known to have been buried in a cemetery at Gebelein, Egypt, around 3,400 BC.

Oops! Before anything moved on any further, did anyone object to the use of BC and AD as anchoring aids to time measurement?

“Object to BC and AD? How? They just are!”

“References to before and after Christ could be offensive,” explained Pam, a not-unattractive pink flush rising to her cheeks. “More bad language. Unless everyone agreed not to be upset by BC and AD – upset enough to make formal complaint, I suppose. Believe me, it’s a jungle out there.”

It sure is. Makes you wonder how many people – dead or alive – you might unwittingly offend in simple, straightforward day-to-day conversation. They may only be people who have studied at the Thought Police School of Diversity and Political Correctness but how would one know? They’re not required to wear badges. Because labelling is offensive. Like Ginger – henceforth to be known as Strawberry Blonde.

Mind drifting towards Pam’s predicament, I waited for my weekend meat order at the butcher’s in Brampton, unaware I’d been spoken to in a whisper.

“Sorry,” I said, fearful of having caused offence. “Miles away... what was that?”

“Do you want a carrier?” the butcher whispered again.

“Oh, yes please. It won’t all fit in my handbag.”

“I hardly dare ask, these days,” he whispered again.

A man further down the queue shook his head slowly at me. Disapprovingly. There was nothing in his handbag.

“I’ve never been good at PC and it’s a bit late to start now,”

I spoke plainly but not without a nervous laugh to throw predators off the scent. Even at a butcher’s counter in Brampton the jungle is in evidence. And in Carlisle, it would seem.

Pam, whom I’d describe as a brunette if I could be sure her feelings were not going to be hurt, was asked for her views on the city’s Renaissance plans, as the recent exhibition was rolled out for locally-canvassed opinion.

She gave them. Speaking plainly – and with instinctive politeness – she offered her ideas, expanded a little on her suggestions, making her public-spirited contribution to the proposed development of her city. Her name was requested to set alongside her interview but, mindful of the dangers inherent in any offered opinion and unsure as to whether she may have used a word on the Thought Police’s banned list, she declined. She was pressed but continued to resist. Her mind was made up. She would avoid all traps.

“The young lady – or should I say woman? – eventually gave up and said, a bit conspiratorially: “OK. I’ll just put you down as Mrs Smith then.”

“The irony is, that’s actually my name!”

And now, still lost in the jungle, neither Pam nor I can work out whether she ought to be offended.