At approximately 3:40 this morning, sleep and I were in different rooms. It felt like we might be in different time-zones.

Instead of counting sheep, I found myself thinking about English.
I know.

Thinking, specifically, why ‘bough’, ‘cough’, ‘rough’, and ‘through’ all end with the same four letters and yet we’ve apparently agreed to pronounce them in entirely different ways.

Mind, boggled. It still is, nine hours later.

In my defence, English is what I affectionately call a ‘bastard’ language: not because I dislike it, but because it was born of many parents. Centuries of invasions, migrations, borrowings, inventions, accidents, and stubborn refusals to update spellings have left us with a language that is wonderfully expressive and occasionally completely unhinged.

I eventually drifted off with renewed admiration for anyone trying to learn English as a foreign language (or teach it!), and a growing suspicion that I may need a more exciting hobby.

Best of all, I hadn’t woken my partner with all those vowel sounds!

Still, there are worse ways to spend a sleepless night than being reminded that language is really just history with the edges left on.