My uncomfortable relationship with the alphabet

There’s an adage that I don’t agree with about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks.

Physical challenges may be too much, and while I would certainly admit that it may take that bit longer to flip a grumpy, set-in-its-ways mind through an unexpected intellectual hoop, it can be done, eventually. Usually.

In this case my personal hurdle has been mastering what is sometimes called the NATO Phonetic Alphabet. That ‘Alpha’, ‘Bravo’, ‘Charlie’ list, probably created to make sure bombs were not dropped at wrong co-ordinates and aeroplanes landed on tarmac and not an open expanse of water.

There was a reason for learning this, and the bonus was creating another memory test, one my wife and I can bounce off each other. Suddenly being asked to NATO-ise the word ‘sycamore’ on a woodland walk can be educational, and entertaining. The latter moreso if you happen to pass folk out for a stroll who tend to accelerate away from you in suspicion that you are in contact with a secret military bunker concealed somewhere in the undergrowth.

Before embarking on our phonetic mission, I had to confess that I have always had an uncomfortable relationship with the alphabet, not learning it until my first year at university. My wife, who once worked as a library assistant, was astonished at this and wondered how I had managed to journey through my school years without having a grasp of this most basic tool in the English language.

Basically, it was fairly easy, thanks to three classmates at secondary Brian Melville, John Moncrieff and Vic Pilka.

Before recounting how this trio unwittingly aided my linguistic labours, I should make clear that I was well acquainted with the alphabet and all its component parts, just not in the accepted order. Of course I was familiar with A, B, C, maybe even D, and could rattle off W, X, Y, Z, the issue was the bunch of letters in the middle that existed between those bookends in their own world of alphabetical anarchy. I knew there were 26 letters and could recite them as fast as anyone else, just in a different and, usually, varying order. Mistakes would be made. Sometimes, owing to omissions, my alphabet might be shy of a letter or two; then the occasional repeat might mean my alphabet stood at 28 or so letters strong. Given most words use a letter more than once and I cannot think of one that uses all 26, this was never really a problem. And, to be honest, I can’t recall ever being asked to stand up and recite the alphabet, ever.

It is possible that my class at primary did have to do this when I was absent for six weeks through illness. The arithmetical tables are forged in my mind with photographic clarity from those early primary classes, but I have no recollection of ever having an alphabetic rote drummed into me.

Able to read, write and spell, this gap in my educational grounding was never apparent to others, or to myself, until high school.

As an aside here, I’d like to mention my sister here – Marysia, Maria, Mary – only sibling of Jurek, Jerzy, George. We went to the same primary and secondary school but, in fact, I only every shared one year with her. I started in P1 as she entered P7. I entered the gates of secondary the term after she exited them. So instead of having a big sis’ to look out for me as I started the big school, all I got was a big shadow.

Alphabetically, Marysia was an ‘A’ student, ‘Acceptably Able’. You could find me a wee bit further along at ‘D’. I would claim ‘Decidedly Disinterested’, teachers tended more towards ‘Definitely Dim’.

As you moved through departments my response to, “Are you Marysia’s brother?” would change from “Yes sir/miss”, to “Yes sir/miss, but I’m not as clever as her.”

As clever? No, but there was a resourcefulness.

The alphabet issue really surfaced when we were streamed and I found myself in a registration class made up of a particular chunk of the alphabet. Now, given my shortcomings in the recognised order of this, I couldn’t tell you what precise chunk this was, but ‘M’ was there.

Then one morning the order was issued for us all to report to the assembly hall. Our registration teacher, the rather intimidating Dr ‘Doc Leaf’ Leckie, had us line up in the science corridor in alphabetical order. This proved to be an important lesson. If you don’t know that order, the only safe place to be is first in line, then everyone else has to form the acceptable chain around you. If you’re not first then you are just a lost and aimless letter.

I wasn’t first.

‘Doc Leaf’ seemed irritated at my bewilderment.

“Morkis,” came the exasperated and high pitched summons. “You’re Marysia’s brother aren’t you? She obviously got all the brains. Now get in place!”

I just stood there looking sheepish and as superfluous as the 27th letter in the English language.

“Don’t you know the alphabet boy? he shouted.

“No sir.”

“Oh, come here,” he demanded and, at that, grabbed me by the shoulders and pointed and yelled “Melville, Moncrieff, YOU, and Pilka behind you.”

And so that threesome of Brian, John and Vic became my markers for key moments in my school life, like taking the SCE exams. I’d wait to see where that trio would sit and then assuredly accommodate the vacant space. Of course, that only worked for the subjects we shared but the advent of names on desks helped and other occasions could be dismissed as exam nerves or an apparently rebel belief in free-for-all seating.

So, really, it wasn’t a problem. Libraries, record shops and reference books presented minor obstacles, so minor in fact that it wasn’t ever an issue until the days of research and essay writing at university. As usual, leaving everything to the last minute led to reference frustrations, easily solved by simply accepting society’s order for the alphabet.

So, I wrote down the 26 letters, learned them, and wondered why I hadn’t bothered before.

Fast forward 50 years, and the alphabet issue surfaces again, this time in the form of five letters and two numbers. Together this combination made up my car registration number and I ended up feeling as inadequate as I did in that science corridor, but this time without Melville, Moncrieff and Pilka to help me.

The problem, as it often is, tends to be exacerbated by accents - those from within the call centre and, of course, my own. Neither end of the line is willing to share that this will inevitably lead to some confusion. I enjoy that international flavour to my communication but still find it surprising that I apparently come across as a kilted clansman stumbling off a blood-drenched Culloden.

And so it came to pass…

“Can I just check that registration again with you Mr Morkis? FM55 XVD?”

“No, no,” I corrected him. “SN65 XPE”.

“Yes,” he replied, “That’s what I said, FM55 XVD.”

Let the game begin…

Now, while not being familiar with the aforementioned NATO Phonetic Alphabet, I am only too aware of the aim; that being to have words that unmistakably begin with the letter you are defining. Having a few words at my disposal, albeit not the ones relayed to and by military commanders in the field, the emergency services, air traffic controls across the globe and everyone else, I have my own alphabet.

“Okay, let’s start again,” I say, trying not to sound like Murdo McMorkis fae the clan McMorkis. “That’s ‘S’ for Sapphire, Sugar, Serendipity, Sprititus Sanctus. ‘N’ for, for, for… Neighbour, Naughty, Neolithic. Then sixty five.”

“Is that five, five?” he asks.

“No, no, sixty five, six, five.”

“Ah, six five,” he repeats.

I continue: “Then ‘X’ for... Xenophobia, Xanadu… X-Ray. ‘P’ for...” At this point I’m hit with the brilliant idea of showing off my geographic knowledge and rattling off, “P for… Peru, Paraguay, Poland, Palastine, Pakistan. Then E...”

“Echo?” he helpfully interupts.

“Echo! I repeat gratefully and relieved this is finally over, I exclaim, mentally shelving my Elegant Existential Elephants, “Echo! Aye!”

“Then he says, “India”.

“What?  India? No, no I’m in Scotland.”

“Yes, I know Mr Morkis, Let me read that back. SN65 XPEI. Sierra, November, Six, Five, X-Ray, Papa, Echo, India. Is that correct?”

Bewildered, I reply, “No, no. What’s with the India? There’s no India. Well there is an India but not in the registration. It’s it’s… Sugar, Nationalism, six, five, X-Rated, Pussycat… Echo. That’s it. That’s all there is. No India.

“No India?”

“No, definitely no India. What's with all this India?”

“Okay, so that’s Sierra, November, Six, Five, X-Ray, Papa, Echo?”

“Correct”

“Now, can I have your policy number Mr Morkis?”

At 12 characters long and a combination of numbers and letters, it proved to be a long afternoon, after which the NATO Phonetic Alphabet became a priority.

But, the Scot in me resents Whiskey having that ‘e’ and why do most versions give ‘Juliett’ an extra ‘t’? Bravo, uniform, golf, golf, echo, romeo, echo, delta, if I know.

Illustration: Gerd Altmann