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Pfft – Yes, apparently, it’s a real word.

Can you believe this word is actually in the dictionary?

Pfft.

Yes. Seriously.

That tiny puff of air you make when someone says something ridiculous, when a brilliant plan crashes and burns, or when you’re trying desperately not to laugh has somehow managed to become an officially recognised word.

Frankly, if pfft can make it into the dictionary, there’s hope for all of us.

Technically, pfft is an informal interjection and a form of onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is the very impressive name given to words that sound like the noise they describe — things like bang, buzz, hiss and splash.

And then there’s pfft.

The slightly less glamorous cousin.

The ultimate ‘Yeah, right.’

Most commonly, pfft is used to express disbelief, dismissal or complete lack of enthusiasm.

Someone says, ‘I’m definitely going to the gym every morning before work.’

Pfft.

Someone claims, ‘I only had one glass of wine.’

Pfft.

Someone says, ‘I’ll just pop into Kmart for one thing.’

Pfft. Please.

It’s also wonderfully efficient. Why waste precious energy constructing a thoughtful response when one tiny burst of air can say, ‘That’s ridiculous, I don’t believe you, and I’ve already lost interest?’ It’s basically emotional shorthand for people who can’t be bothered forming an entire sentence.

It is essentially the sound effect version of ‘yeah, right’, ‘whatever’ or ‘I’m not buying a single word of that.’

For maximum impact, it should ideally be accompanied by a raised eyebrow or a subtle eye roll.

Pfft can also be the noise that escapes when you’re desperately trying not to laugh. It’s the laugh you weren’t supposed to let out.

You know the situation.

Someone says something accidentally hilarious during a completely inappropriate moment. You clamp your lips together, stare at the floor and attempt to behave like a mature adult.

Then…

Pfft.

Game over.

Now everyone knows you were laughing.

And then… Pfft… Gone.

Pfft can also describe something disappearing or ending suddenly.

‘He was standing there one second and—pfft—he was gone.’

It works equally well for plans, projects, diets, New Year’s resolutions and other things that begin with enormous enthusiasm and quietly disappear three days later.

‘We were going to renovate the entire house ourselves. Then the idea went pfft.’

Probably for the best.

Pfft is surprisingly versatile for five letters. In writing, pfft can also be a muffled pop, a quick burst of air, something whizzing past or a small fizzling sound.

So technically, it’s doing quite a lot for a word that looks like someone fell asleep on the keyboard.

Pfft responsibly – a small warning – pfft is very informal.

In texts, casual conversation, social media or funny writing? Perfect.

In response to your boss explaining the new company policy? Perhaps not.

Because depending on the tone, pfft can come across as sarcastic, dismissive or downright rude.

Which is actually rather impressive.

Five letters.

No vowels.

And with the right facial expression, somehow capable of communicating an entire attitude.

Who needs words?

Oh, wait.

Apparently pfft is one.

Some words are carefully developed over centuries. They begin in ancient languages, evolve through generations and eventually earn their place in respected dictionaries.

Then there is wooshka.

Wooshka is not the sort of word you whisper. It must be announced loudly, preferably while completing an unnecessarily dramatic physical movement.

Successfully throw a tea bag into the bin from three metres away? Wooshka!

Slide a roast perfectly from the tray onto the serving plate without dropping it on the dog? Wooshka!

Manage to plug a USB cable in correctly on the first attempt? That deserves a standing ovation, a public holiday and an enthusiastic Wooshka!

In Australian slang, wooshka is generally used to celebrate something being completed with ultimate efficiency. It can also imitate the imaginary sound of something happening exceptionally fast.

The word has been described as something yelled spontaneously in reaction to the over-enjoyment of a simple action.

Apparently, it may have originated with three friends living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. One day, one of them felt the urge to jump off a curb and randomly yelled, ‘Wooshka!’

Later, while running down some stairs, she jumped over the final two and enthusiastically repeated it.

And just like that, a completely unnecessary—but highly satisfying—word was born.

Wooshka can also describe someone’s sudden departure, particularly from the workplace.

Imagine poor Fitz sitting quietly at his desk, drinking coffee and pretending to update a spreadsheet. Moments later, management appears, security arrives, and Fitz is hurriedly collecting family photographs, a half-dead desk plant and seventeen stolen teaspoons into a cardboard box.

Wooshka! Fitz is gone.

‘Fitz got the wooshka today,’ someone whispers near the photocopier. ‘It’ll be our turn next. Hope the money’s good.’

Wooshka is also the perfect sound effect for fire.

You are innocently making chips when the oil suddenly catches alight. In a moment of panic, someone decides to pour water onto it. Wooshka!

The kitchen ceiling is now on fire, the smoke alarm has entered a state of emotional distress, and the neighbours are standing outside filming it for Facebook.

For the record, never pour water onto a cooking-oil fire. Turn off the heat if it is safe and smother the flames with a fire blanket or suitable lid – just DO NOT use water.

The beauty of wooshka is its versatility. It can celebrate success, describe speed, announce destruction or summarise the sudden disappearance of a colleague.

It makes ordinary life feel like an action movie.

When my Dad told my ex-boyfriend, ‘If you hurt my daughter again, I’ll get a shotgun, stick it up your backside, and blow you from here to kingdom come,’ instead of running to Mum and complaining about Dad, I should have screamed from the top of my lungs Wooshka!

So, the next time you close the dishwasher with your foot, successfully reverse into a tight parking space or catch something moments before it hits the floor, do not quietly congratulate yourself.

Raise your arms, take a bow and yell – WOOSHKA!

The English language has many ways of making simple things sound far more serious than they need to be. Add ‘ism’ to the end of a word and suddenly it is no longer a habit, opinion or slightly annoying personality trait. It is now a doctrine, complete with imaginary followers, a mission statement and possibly a podcast.

Capitalism. Socialism. Feminism. Stoicism. Romanticism. Surrealism.

These are big, important words used by philosophers, politicians, artists and people who have read half a book and are now determined to explain society to everyone at a barbecue, usually while holding a sausage in one hand and pointing aggressively with the other.

The suffix ‘ism’ comes from the Greek ‘ismos’ and the Latin ‘ismus’, both used to describe a system, condition, belief or practice. In other words, humanity has been attaching ‘ism’ to things for thousands of years, probably because saying, ‘That is just how Gerald behaves,’ did not sound academic enough.

In its official form, an ism describes a belief system, movement or philosophy. Capitalism is an economic system. Feminism advocates equality for women. Realism portrays life as it is. Surrealism portrays life as it might look after eating cheese immediately before bed and then falling asleep with the television on.

There are political isms, religious isms, artistic isms and philosophical isms. There is existentialism, which asks why we are here. Stoicism, which tells us to stop complaining about it. Romanticism, which adds dramatic lighting and someone staring sadly out a window. And modernism, which removes the lighting entirely, paints one wall grey and charges $38 admission.

But the true beauty of the ism is what happens when ordinary people get hold of it.

An ism can also be a personal quirk, strange habit, catchphrase or highly specific behaviour unique to one person. It is the thing they do so often that their name eventually becomes part of the diagnosis.

‘Why does John clap twice before opening the fridge?’

That is just one of his John-isms.

‘Why does Debbie say ‘interesting’ whenever she clearly means ‘absolutely not, and I may never forgive you’?’

Classic Debbie-ism.

‘Why does Dave reverse into every car space, even when there are twelve cars waiting behind him and one person has started ageing visibly?’

‘Dave-ism. Advanced stage.’

Everyone has isms. Families are especially good at identifying them, preserving them and mentioning them loudly in front of new partners. Some people hum while concentrating. Some cannot walk past a cushion without karate-chopping the top of it. Others pronounce a word incorrectly for twenty years, then become deeply offended when anyone suggests the dictionary may know better.

Isms are not necessarily bad. They are the strange little habits that make people memorable. Without them, we would all be perfectly predictable and emotionally balanced.

So do not make fun of someone’s isms too harshly. Observe them, name them and quietly catalogue them for future family gatherings, weddings and any occasion involving a microphone.

Because once you call it an ism, it stops being weird and starts becoming a philosophy.

Because an annoying habit is just bad behaviour, but an ism is practically a family tradition.

Because every strange habit deserves a respectable title and at least one dedicated follower.

Because calling it an ism is much nicer than calling it the reason everyone avoids sitting beside you.

Because without our isms, we would simply be normal—and where is the fun in that?

I rang my little sister Ang on Sunday for a quick chat.

You will remember Ang from Blog 20 – Who Packs Your Parachute. Post car accident, I’ve tried not to bother Ang too much with my lunatic rantings. I mean, everyone has their own stuff going on, and there are only so many times you can ring someone and say, ‘You will NOT believe what has happened now,’ before they start screening your calls.

Well, Sunday I was pissed off.

My intention was to call Ang briefly.

Huh. Did I just say briefly?

One hour, 35 minutes and 33 seconds later, I hung up the phone.

Apparently, my version of a ‘quick chat’ now has the running time of a feature film.

I needed my parachute packer front and centre. I needed her to listen to, well… everything. Everything that had been stored away in my little gut, heart, chest and head, all crammed in there like an overstuffed suitcase you have to sit on to get the zip closed.

And on Sunday, the zip broke.

I needed to forget about all the ‘I, me, mine and my’ for a while and dump the whole bloody lot on her so it could become an ‘us, we and our’ problem.

Very generous of me, really.

‘Congratulations, Ang. You are now the proud co-owner of my emotional baggage.’

And, as she always does, she took it completely in her stride. And, as she always does, she made me feel that I was not alone.

She let me purge everything I had been holding onto without interrupting, judging, fixing or somehow turning it around and making it about her.

I talked.

And talked.

And talked some more.

I’m fairly certain at some point she could have put the phone down, made herself a cup of tea, watched an episode of something on Netflix, come back and I still would have been mid-sentence.

The worst part?

I don’t think I even asked how she or the family were going.

Not once.

I know she has her own stuff happening. Her own worries, frustrations, responsibilities and probably a list of things she could quite happily rant about herself.

But Sunday wasn’t my finest moment in the ‘being a considerate sister’ department.

I was ready to jump out of the plane, and I needed my parachute packed immediately.

So, Ang packed it.

No fuss. No judgement. No invoice for emotional labour.

She just listened, reassured me, made me laugh and somehow helped turn the enormous disasters spinning around in my head into something that felt a little more manageable.

Sometimes your parachute packer doesn’t fix the plane.

They don’t stop you having to jump.

They simply make sure that when you do, you’re not hurtling towards the ground alone.

Thanks, Ang.

And next time I ring for a ‘quick chat’…

Maybe clear your afternoon.

Have you ever had one of those weeks where absolutely nothing goes to plan? Not just one small inconvenience, but a full-scale attack from the universe, as though your name has been drawn from a hat labelled ‘Who needs character building?’

That has been my life lately.

It starts with something minor. You spill coffee on a clean shirt five minutes before leaving the house. Then you realise you have no other clean shirts because the washing machine has apparently entered its creative differences era.

You leave the house and discover your phone is on 3 per cent. No problem—you will charge it in the car. Except the charging cable only works when held at a precise 47-degree angle while driving over perfectly smooth roads, facing north and whispering words of encouragement. Why is the cable like this, because at some stage Kristofferson the cat, has chewed through every available cable in the house.

Then there is traffic.

You choose the lane that appears to be moving faster, only for it to immediately come to a complete stop. The lane you just left begins flowing freely, with drivers sailing past looking suspiciously pleased with themselves. You move back, and naturally, that lane stops too.

Of course, my recent run of luck has included something considerably less funny – the car accident – I still can’t talk about it without every conversation turning into an episode of a Days of our Lives soap opera.

Nothing says ‘living the dream’ quite like spending your week rotating between doctors, physiotherapists and insurance phone calls.

I’ve now explained the car accident so many times, I could perform the story as a one-person theatre production.

Even simple errands become missions. You go to the supermarket for milk and leave $86 poorer, carrying three bags of snacks, cleaning products and a candle that smells like ‘Coastal Serenity.’

No milk.

I placed an online supermarket order the other day, because I desperately need translucent loose powder for my makeup the next morning, the powder was half price. Of course, I still spent $100 more, but hey, the convenience of it.

Loose powder will arrive at 7pm and I’ll have it there for my 7am makeup. Yer, you guessed it, everything came expect the loose powder. Sigh.

Don’t get me started on how many lottery tickets I’ve bought lately. I’ve spent a small pension on telling myself, this one is the winner and each week, nothing.

So, I keep reminding myself that bad runs eventually end. Things settle down. Bodies recover. Problems get sorted. Washing machines occasionally start cooperating again.

Until then, I will keep showing up, keep moving forward and keep hoping the next trick I catch is a good one.

Preferably one involving a winning lottery ticket.

It’s daily. It’s a balancing act. The juggle between work, family and personal life is universally exhausting. Whether you’re managing work, childcare, household chores, appointments, bills, relationships, or just trying to carve out a few minutes for yourself, the mental load is real.

In my case, I’ve now added in the physical and mental aftermath of a car accident, and suddenly the juggle feels less like a circus and more like a poorly organised Olympic event I never trained for.  

Some days, it feels like someone is tossing balls in the air non-stop. Work ball. Family ball. Washing ball. Dinner ball. Reply to that message ball. Be a functioning adult ball. Pain management ball. Insurance paperwork ball. Emotional stability ball. Pick up the dog poo ball. And there I am, standing underneath them all, arms flailing, pretending I have a system.

Spoiler alert – I do not have a system.

I’m trying to catch them all, but the reality is I can’t. So which ones do I drop?

The reality is, we can’t catch everything. Not all at once. Not perfectly. Not without eventually dropping something. And that’s the part no one really tells you.

Life isn’t about keeping every single ball in the air forever. Sometimes it’s about working out which ones are glass, which ones are rubber, and which ones can roll under the couch for a few days without the world ending.

The glass balls are the important things – your health, your family, your sanity, your recovery. The things that can crack if ignored for too long.

The rubber balls are things like the laundry pile that has started developing its own postcode, the unanswered emails, the messy kitchen, or the fact that dinner might be toast, cereal, or something beige from the freezer. They’ll bounce. Maybe not gracefully, but they’ll bounce.

Since the accident, I’ve had to learn this the hard way. My body doesn’t always keep up with my expectations. My mind gets tired quicker than I’d like. Some days I feel strong and capable and other days I’m back to feeling like that Victorian ghost in a dressing gown, floating from room to room wondering why my neck hurts and who moved my motivation.

But burnout doesn’t mean we’re weak. It means we’ve been carrying too much for too long without enough rest, support, or breathing space.

So maybe the question isn’t, ‘How do I keep juggling everything?’ or ‘Why is the juggle such a struggle?’

Maybe the question is, ‘What can I gently put down today?’

And if the answer is the washing, so be it. It’s been sitting there long enough to develop opinions, so was probably judging me anyway.

Some balls need a plastic bag and immediate attention, because unfortunately the dog poo ball is not one you can ignore for long, before it escalates to urgent business.

Let’s check the history out first, before I explain why this unfortunately relates to me.

Sook – traces back to old Scottish and northern English dialects, originally used to summon unweaned calves. Over time, it evolved into an insult for someone overly dependent, overly sensitive or quick to complain.

La La – a rhythmic little embellishment, similar to the French ‘ooh la la,’ added to make the insult sound more theatrical and dramatic.

In Australia, sooky la la is a slang term used to describe a cry baby, a whinger, or someone sulking and acting like an overgrown baby. It’s usually said playfully to tease someone who is complaining or pouting over something trivial.

The problem is, since my recent car accident, I have become the very definition of a sooky la la. Not the cute, playful kind either.

Since the accident, my physical and mental health has gone into complete overdrive. I’ve turned into something that I don’t want to be, and it isn’t pretty. If I had to describe myself at the moment, I would say I’m one emotional support blanket away from becoming a full-time Victorian ghost wandering the hallway in a dressing gown.

By the way, I just bought a new dress for my upcoming work gala and Simon, the husband, has gently told me that the gala dress actually does look like a dressing gown on me. I’m definitely channelling the Victorian ghost.

I’m told I’m stoic and stubborn. Too stoic and too stubborn at times. I don’t think I am, but apparently the masses disagree.

After the accident, I tried to be practical. I told myself, ‘It’s okay. It’s an accident. My neck hurts. I’ll get better.’ In my mind, ‘getting better’ meant maybe a week or two. A bit of rest, a few physio appointments, and I’ll be back to normal.

The reality is very different. It’s not a week. It’s not just a sore neck. It’s months of pain, appointments, disrupted sleep, nightmares, anxiety, fear, frustration and trying to function like a normal human when your body and brain are both yelling ‘absolutely not.’

I’ve become a cry baby. I can’t stop crying. I am whingeing about everything – the other cars on the road, my lack of sleep, the nightmares, my aches and pains. These are not trivial matters to someone involved in a car accident, but to those who have not experienced it, the attitude can sometimes feel like – well, just get on with it.

Get on with what?

Get on with pretending I’m fine? Get on with ignoring the fact that driving now feels like I’m on a racing track? Get on with waking up tired, sore and emotionally drained? Get on with being grateful I survived, while also grieving the version of myself that existed before the crash?

I’ve learnt you can be grateful and struggling at the same time. I know things could have been worse, but I still feel broken by what did happen.

So yes, maybe I am a sooky la la at the moment, but maybe that’s what recovery looks like sometimes. Not neat. Not brave. Not inspirational and certainly not stoic.

Sometimes recovery is crying in the car park, being scared on the road, complaining about your neck for the fifteenth time that day, and still getting up the next morning to try again.

So, for now, I’ll wear the title. Sooky la la and all.

Unhinged is one of those words that doesn’t just sit politely in a sentence. It bursts in wearing one shoe, carrying a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, and demanding to know who moved its emotional support candle.

At its core, unhinged describes someone who seems mentally or emotionally off-balance, irrational, or wildly unpredictable. So much so, that you begin to wonder whether the train ever had tracks to begin with.

The image behind the word is actually pretty brilliant – something literally coming off its hinges, like a door no longer attached properly. Once the hinges are gone, the whole thing swings wildly, falls over, or becomes completely useless. It is not hard to see how that image made the leap from hardware to human behaviour.

Over time, the term evolved from a physical meaning into a psychological and emotional one. Instead of describing a broken door, it came to describe a person acting as though their usual sense of stability, control, or restraint had popped clean off.

That is why synonyms for unhinged often include words like deranged, unbalanced, irrational, unstable, chaotic,and manic. None of them exactly whisper ‘calm and collected.’ Definitely not the sort of words you’d want embroidered on a cushion.

But language, as always, loves a plot twist.

In modern slang, unhinged has developed a second life. It is no longer used only to describe someone in a serious or disturbing state. Now it can also mean outrageously funny, wildly bold, or delightfully chaotic in a way that feels almost impressive. Unhinged humour is the kind of humour that catches you off guard and makes you laugh while also wondering whether everyone involved needs a nap, a hug, or internet restrictions.

This is especially true online, where being a little polished is boring and being mildly odd barely registers. To stand out, people do not just open the door anymore, they rip it off the frame and wave it around for views.

A completely unfiltered voice note, a bizarre but weirdly accurate rant, or a meme that feels like it was made during a sugar high at 2 a.m. can all be described as unhinged in the most affectionate way possible.

That said, the word still has a sharper edge. When used seriously about a person’s mental state, unhinged can sound insulting, dismissive, and stigmatising. It can reduce genuine distress to a dramatic label, which is why context matters. There is a difference between calling a TikTok comment section unhinged and using the term to mock someone who is clearly struggling.

So, unhinged is one of those wonderfully flexible words that can mean alarming, hilarious, chaotic, exaggerated, or all four at once. It is a word with drama. A word with energy. A word that does not simply enter the room, but kicks the door open, knocks over a lamp, and starts monologuing.

Which, when you think about it, is a bit unhinged in itself.

Life is normal — until it isn’t.

On an ordinary day, I was heading off to work, minding my own business, doing all the right things on the road, when suddenly — bam. Out of nowhere, a Ram pickup truck T-boned my car.

Just like that, life changed in an instant.

I felt the impact. I felt the shunt as my vehicle bounced to the right and slammed into the kerb, or maybe the embankment — I’m still not completely sure. By that point, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion.

The car bounced back, lifted up, and suddenly I was airborne.

I tried to steer. I tried to brake. But where was I going? Nowhere. The car had a mind of its own.

Then I crash-landed into a concrete garden bed. All I could see in front of me was a metal fence. It was surreal. In one violent moment, I took out a massive section of it.

Somehow, I ended up sitting there with the front of my car up on the fence, still clutching the steering wheel. The music was blaring, and there was this god-awful squealing noise coming from my car.

In the middle of all the madness, I had the common sense to turn the radio off.

Then I tried to turn the car off — but it wouldn’t work. I think the front wheels were still up in the air, spinning and squealing.

For a moment, I felt like I was in control.

Then someone yanked open the driver’s door, and suddenly I wasn’t. My body started shaking. Shock hit me all at once.

They asked me, “Do you want to stay in the car? Do you want to get out?”

I didn’t even know which way was up or down. My head was spinning.

Then common sense kicked in again. I rang my son, Jackson. He was only minutes away, and I asked him to come and help me.

I needed family.

I knew it was an accident. I knew I wasn’t at fault. But my car couldn’t be driven off the fence. Metal palings were stuck up underneath the front of it.

Bystanders who had seen my car go through the fence came over to help. Everyone assured me the car was fine. They told me it was driveable, that there wasn’t much damage.

So, trusting their wisdom, I drove it five hundred metres home.

Later, when the tow truck driver came, he looked at my X-Trail and told me to kiss her goodbye.

“She’s not coming home,” he said.

Ever.

And I cried like I had lost a limb.

I loved that car.

At first, I thought I wasn’t injured. I thought I was lucky and that maybe I had walked away from it all.

Then the adrenaline started to settle.

The neck pain came. The shoulder pain came. The numbness in my hands and arms came in full force.

I felt lost. Bereft. Sad. Sorry. Scared.

But that was only the beginning.

Days later, the nightmares started. Days later, I was in and out of the doctor’s surgery, in and out of radiology, filing police reports, following up insurance, making calls, filling out forms, and trying to understand a process I had never asked to be part of.

All of a sudden, I had a full-time job dealing with… I don’t even really know what, to be honest.

And then there was the driving.

Now I flinch behind the wheel. I yelp. I call out. I find myself driving in the far-left lane on the motorway doing 80 km/h in a 100 zone.

It doesn’t even make sense to stay in that lane. Cars are merging from on-ramps. Vehicles are cutting across my path. If anything, it should feel worse.

But I stay there anyway.

Changing lanes feels too complicated. Too much. Too dangerous.

I am hyper-vigilant. Every car feels too close. Every movement feels like a threat.

It’s not a nice place to be.

For once in my life, I cannot wait for time to move faster, because people say time heals all wounds.

I hope they’re right.

There was a cyclist directly behind me that day. In a sliding-doors moment, I had the option to let him go first.

On this occasion, I decided I would go first.

It hit me a few weeks later – there is no doubt in my mind that my decision to go first saved his life.

And in that same moment, my X-Trail saved mine.

When I left the scene of the accident, I found myself looking through the bushes.

What was I looking for?

A pushbike.

A dead cyclist.

That is the honest truth.

But I found neither.

My only witness had not stopped. He had simply ridden off into the sunset.

And I was left standing there, surrounded by broken metal, broken car, and the beginning of an aftermath I never saw coming.

And I’m now tackling the acronyms.

SNAFU is one of those marvellous words that sounds exactly like what it means. It lands with a thud, like a box dropped in the wrong place, or a muttered curse from someone knee deep in disaster.

It came out of 1940’s American military slang and stands for ‘Situation Normal, All Fouled Up.’ Originally the F stood for a stronger profane version, which was far less polite and far more accurate. It’s all about chaotic, disordered situations, where everything has gone wrong. There’s been a major mistake, an error, confusion, mess, an unexpected complication. Nothing is where it should be and the people in charge are pretending this is all perfectly manageable.

Plain and simple chronic dysfunction. You’re stuck in a situation where nothing is going to plan. A technical glitch, a disastrous mishap, a logistical nightmare. You’ve run into an error or a problem that is large.

That really is the genius of it. ‘Situation normal.’ Nothing to see here. Just the usual catastrophe. Just the regular confusion, delay, wrong turn, missing part, broken plan and ill-timed disaster. ‘All fouled up’, as expected.

It’s a good grumbling army word. Snafu is when the supply ship arrives, but the stuff packed on the bottom are the things everyone urgently needed on top. It’s when the radio receiver sets make it all the way to the jungle camp, only for someone to realise no one sent batteries.

It’s paperwork filed in the wrong place, instructions sent to the wrong person and a plan so poorly executed it becomes almost impressive. Not clever enough to be sabotage, just hopeless enough to be human.

A snafu is not a tiny hiccup. It’s bigger than forgetting your sunglasses, but smaller than total societal collapse. It sits somewhere in the middle – irritating, inconvenient, sometimes absurd. It stops you from accomplishing the thing you meant to do. We wanted to get the campsite up before sundown, but due to several snafus along the way, including a run-in with an angry bear, we didn’t set up camp until midnight. It’s not bad luck. That is a snafu.

In the military, a snafu could be dangerous, even deadly. These days the words have wandered off into everyday life, where it now applies to all sorts of bungles and blunders. Driving all the way to the basketball stadium before realising you left your tickets on the kitchen bench, that’s a major snafu.

Managing to lock your keys in the car while the car is still running, that’s an elite-level snafu.

It is such a useful word because life is full of these ridiculous little breakdowns – moments when the wheels come off, but only just enough to be deeply annoying and later, can be very funny.