writerunblockedrepublic

Category: Words

  • IMPRESARIO

    IMPRESARIO

    I came across the word impresario the other day and it made me do that little mental double-take – who, what, how? It sounds fancy, slightly dramatic, and honestly like someone who wears a scarf indoors on purpose.

    Then I looked it up and saw it comes from the Italian word for ‘undertaking’ or ‘manager,’ and my brain immediately thought of the person doing the undertaking, who is the undertaker. But, wait, are we talking about the same vibe here? These two words couldn’t be any more different.

    Because if you follow the English logic for half a second, an impresario should be someone who undertakes things… like an undertaker. And now we’re one step away from imagining a person who ‘manages dead people,’ like they’re a very quiet team with excellent attendance. ‘Right everyone, great work today — same time tomorrow. No complaints, love that for us.’

    But no. An impresario isn’t running a funeral home. They’re the person behind public entertainment — operas, concerts, theatre, festivals, sometimes sports events — basically anything where a crowd shows up and someone has to make the chaos look intentional.

    They organise, manage, and often finance productions. They’re the driving force behind the show without being the show, not the driving force behind funeral arrangements or preparing dead bodies for burial or cremation.

    They are the ones that find the talent, book the venue, wrangle the budgets, negotiate the egos, and somehow make it all land on opening night with the lights actually turning on.

    An undertaker, meanwhile, is skilled in a completely different kind of undertaking – death care. They handle the practical and emotional logistics around funerals and the preparation of bodies for burial or cremation. It’s serious work, done with dignity and care — and ideally with far fewer tantrums than your average cast rehearsal.

    And that’s what makes the two words so funny. Same root idea, wildly different outcomes. One person is backstage dealing with divas, set changes, and ticket sales. The other is quietly helping families through grief, managing timelines that no one asked for, and ensuring everything is respectful and safe.

    In their own ways, both are creative producers. Both are planners. Both are professionals who work behind the scenes so other people can make sense of a big, emotional event. But one is creating spectacle and applause…..and the other is creating peace and closure. Same linguistic neighbourhood, but what they are producing is absolutely chalk and cheese.

    In the end, impresario and undertaker are a perfect reminder that English loves to recycle old roots and then send them down totally different career paths.

    They both come from the idea of undertaking something big on behalf of others — just with very different audiences and outcomes, with a completely different emotional destination — which is exactly why the mix-up is so funny, and why the words feel like they should be cousins who don’t talk at family events.

  • WHO PACKS YOUR PARACHUTE

    WHO PACKS YOUR PARACHUTE

    It’s a metaphor popularised by Vietnam War fighter pilot Charles Plumb – after being shot down, he survived because a parachute—packed by someone he’d never met—did its job perfectly.

    Because we all have parachute packers.

    Not literal ones – unless you’re doing skydiving – I mean the people in your life who quietly support you—mentally, emotionally, physically—often without you even noticing until you’re mid–free fall and suddenly thinking, ‘Oh… this would be a terrible time for my coping skills to go on lunch break.’

    These people make space for you in times of need. They steady you. They help you reset. They remind you who you are when you’ve temporarily forgotten.

    For me, it’s my sister, Ang.

    When I’m angry, sad, broken, tired, down in the dumps, or heartbroken, a call to Ang—usually accompanied by a truly majestic rant—means I live to fight another day. She doesn’t judge. She doesn’t rush me. She just listens, gives me a warm hug over the phone, and somehow delivers advice that lands exactly where it needs to. It’s like she has a PhD in calm down, but in a way that doesn’t make you want to throw your phone.

    Without a doubt, Ang contributes to my daily success and expects nothing in return. In effect, she gently pushes me out of the plane when I’m stuck, pulls the cord when I can’t, and helps me land safely when life gets rough. Then, as if by magic, there she is, basically my emotional ground crew, ready to greet me on landing, without me scraping my knees and backside.

    Ang is there with me, through all the turbulence, sideways, ups and down of life, a calm voice in the chaos of my world, putting the brakes on when I hit panic speed.

    And she doesn’t pack just one parachute either. I keep Ang busy packing the whole set — my physical parachute, my mental parachute, my emotional parachute, and my spiritual parachute too.

    She makes sure they’re folded properly, with all the silks of each chute in place, so my fate stays favourable even when my brain is trying to write a disaster movie.

    She checks the straps, tightens the buckles, and somehow knows exactly which part of me is about to freefall before I do. When I’m spiralling, she’s steady. When I’m overthinking, she’s calm. When I’m convincing myself the wind is stronger than it is, she reminds me I’ve jumped before — and I’ve landed every time.

    So, thanks, Sis, for always packing my parachute. I hope that on the days you need it, I pack yours too — even if mine has a slightly wonky fold and a snack tucked in the pocket for emergencies.

    Now I’ll throw it to you – who’s packing your parachute? Who makes your day safer, easier, or more pleasant—quietly, consistently, and probably without enough credit?

    *Image by Subbu Rayan on Pexels

  • IT WILL SUFFICE

    IT WILL SUFFICE

    ‘It will suffice.’ It’s a tidy little phrase, a formal way of saying something is enough—adequate, satisfactory, meets the brief—no need to do anything else. The job is done. The box is ticked. The universe is at peace.

    It’s basically ‘That’ll do,’ but with a monocle. It reminds me of Mr Monopoly, kindly and sensible (unless he’s taking too much of your money).

    I feel it’s okay to use, but it can come across as a bit smug – if you overuse it. Then what happens if my ‘it will suffice’ and your ‘it will suffice’ are two different things – chaos could reign.

    Take the classic ‘A brief note will suffice.’ In my head I’m saying, a small note is all that’s needed. Please don’t write me a novel. I have a life. I don’t want a backstory and I don’t want an appendix. Then they send you a long note anyway. Do they not understand suffice? How do I tell them they didn’t suffice properly and that their long note is un-suffice?

    If I tell them their note did not suffice, I don’t think that’s a thing. It’s like their note showed up to an exam and got a D-minus.

    I feel there are rules around ‘it will suffice’, but I’m not really clear on what they are. How do I tell them – you didn’t do it wrong……but you did it wrong.

    Did they think that me wanting brief was just the starting line? Why are they writing like a judge is going to ask follow-up questions, and my inbox is a courtroom.

    People pad, they build a safety buffer the size of a dissertation, so I’m guessing it’s up to me to name the size of the boundary.

    Maybe, I’ve got to go long note when I give the rules – just a few sentences will do, keep it brief, stick to the bare minimum facts, don’t need to much detail, a short version is great, just a couple of lines is enough. Phew.

    What if I tell someone at a party that a small piece of cake will suffice, but then I eat the small piece and for me it’s not suffice. Do I go back and tell them, I was wrong with my sufficing and now I want a bigger piece of cake.

    I’ve told them I don’t need much and I’m a disciplined adult who can conquer food desires, but really, I wanted a larger allocation, because it’s yummy and it’s sugar and I’m not so disciplined.

    Technically, I wasn’t lying, I just updated my data, which revealed new facts. So, what am I going to do – I think I’m going to simply say, could I grab a bit more, preferably without making eye contact, because doesn’t everyone want their cake and eat it too.

  • NOTHING UNTOWARD

    NOTHING UNTOWARD

    Nothing untoward is one of those quietly reassuring phrases that does a lot of heavy lifting with very few words.

    Used a lot in formal settings, like medical notes, police statements, carefully worded emails or legal documents. It conveys calm, neutrality and understatement – in other words, no big deal.

    At its core, saying nothing untoward means exactly what it sounds like: nothing unusual, unexpected, inappropriate, or problematic happened. Everything proceeded as it should have. The situation remained ordinary, uneventful, and free from drama.

    All good. No issues. Move along. Everything was fine. It’s polite.

    Nothing untoward, downplays events without dismissing them.

    Rather than enthusiastically declaring that everything was excellent or perfect, the phrase gives quiet reassurance and suggests that things were checked and reviewed and that no red flags were found.

    It’s the verbal equivalent of a professional nod.

    Casual conversation might say – nothing weird happened, it was all normal, no problems at all. A more formal language opts for – nothing untoward.

    To fully understand the phrase, it helps to unpack the word untoward itself. While it’s not commonly used on its own in everyday speech, it does carry meaning.

    Something untoward is out of the ordinary — not what was expected or planned. It doesn’t have to be catastrophic, it simply signals that something didn’t go according to script.

    Something untoward is anything that strays from the expected path — an event, action or outcome that wasn’t expected, planned or welcomed. It suggests a deviation from the norm, often with a faint undertone of concern or impropriety, without spelling out anything dramatic.

    Saying nothing untoward happened reassures the reader that events followed the expected course. The phrase quietly confirms that no lines were crossed. There were no problems, disruptions or adverse outcomes.

    I think it sounds so serious because part of the charm — and sometimes the frustration — of nothing untoward is its formality. It can feel deliberately vague, as though something could have gone wrong, but didn’t. This makes it ideal for contexts where precision matters, or where understatement is preferred over emotional language.

    Nothing untoward is a calm, composed way of saying that everything remained normal and uneventful. It confirms the absence of problems, impropriety, or surprises — without fuss, flourish, or fanfare.

    Translated into plain English: No bad stuff. No drama. No fuss. Just as promised.

    So, when someone tells you that nothing untoward occurred, take it at face value. It means the wheels stayed on, the forms were ticked, and no one had to escalate anything. Nothing blew up, nothing crossed a line, and nothing ended up becoming ‘a situation’.

    In plain Aussie terms: everyone behaved, nothing went pear-shaped, and there’s no need to carry on about it. All good. Move along. Nothing untoward.

  • CALM THE FARM

    CALM THE FARM

    Its meaning is clear – calm down, relax, chill out – it’s Aussie slang, the kind we use to tell someone to settle their nerves or stop getting worked up about something.

    Linguistically, it’s a classic example of Aussie English that’s meant to soften a directive with rhyme and humour, much like ‘no worries’ or ‘she’ll be right.’

    On paper, it’s meant to be playful, casual even, similar to saying ‘take it easy’ in a sing-song way. A phrase that, in theory, should immediately lower your cortisol levels and return the universe to balance.

    BUT, why is it that when someone says this to me, my stress is NOT managed, my chaotic situation becomes worse, I am instantly more unsettled and frankly, too flipping mad at them for saying it to – seriously – take it easy.

    Psychologically speaking, telling someone to ‘calm down’ often has the opposite effect. So, while the phrase might be wrapped in humour, the message underneath can feel like your reaction is the problem, the situation itself.

    It may be informal Australian English, but to me it makes me flip a switch. I see red, and I certainly don’t feel like everything is going to be fine and dandy.

    It doesn’t feel folksy. There’s no stress relief, and there’s no damn humour in someone essentially telling you you’re overreacting. Are you trying to soothe me, or are you patronising me? Because let me tell you, it lands squarely in the latter.

    It’s an idiom that stops me in my tracks and makes me feel like an idiot – why do my emotions need correcting, managing, or reining in for the comfort of everyone else?

    Informal, you say. I don’t think so. More like rude and oh, by the way, thanks so much for pointing out that my situation or emotions are out of control.

    So, if you’re telling me to relax, don’t give me that ‘calm your farm’ authentic Aussie touch, unless you want me to bite your head off, kick you back to the land of woop woop, tell you to put a sock in it, or crack the shits, big time. 

    Oh, and one last rant, because rest assured – the farm was calm – until you mentioned it.

    *Image by Pixabay

  • UMPTEENTH

    UMPTEENTH

    ‘Empty the rubbish bin,’ I say for the umpteenth time. Once you have children, the word umpteenth becomes part of your daily vocabulary. It’s up there with ‘No’, ‘Seriously?’ and ‘Why is this wet?’

    It’s the parental unit of measurement for insanity. It means something has happened a great many times, to the point you can’t even remember the exact number of times. It’s a word used repeatedly to convey annoyance or exasperation.

    Why does ‘empty the rubbish bin’ have to be something happening for a very large number of times, i.e. my repeating myself over and over, when it’s a one-off, go and action what I asked you to do yesterday / today / hours ago / minutes ago. There’s no multi-steps involved in this request, why am I living through Fast & Furious 33 : Bin Drift?

    I have an entire playlist of umpteenth-time requests, and let me tell you, the hits just keep coming:

    • Empty the rubbish bin – preferably before the maggots start organising a neighbourhood BBQ.
    • Take the bins out tonight – not ‘take the bins out after the truck has already driven into the sunset.’
    • Clean your room – there are ecosystems in there that haven’t even been discovered by science.
    • Feed the dog – the dog is barking. The bowl is empty. The clues are everywhere.
    • Get out of bed – why is this a surprise every single morning? Why is it an even bigger surprise when they’re late?
    • Turn the lights off – my house is lit up like a casino and no one here is winning.
    • Put your dirty clothes in the washing basket – apparently an impossible request; the floor is closer and more convenient.
    • Put the dishes in the dishwasher – instead they are hidden in bedrooms, where a science experiment begins to take shape.
    • Have you tried turning it off and on again? – the universal tech solution, but too easy to do this the first time, right? Instead, let’s call Mum first.
    • Did I mention – Get out of bed – my personal ringtone and spiritual chant all in one.
    • Where did you last see it? – classic response to lost keys, wallets, glasses and sometimes common sense, usually answered with a blank stare.
    • Did you have a boy look or a girl look? – my son claims he had a ‘girl look,’ yeah right, send the girl in and she finds it immediately.
    • Can you please come and help me – not tomorrow, not ‘after one more level,’ now.

    And did I mention…..

    • GET OUT OF BED – Because apparently the 472 reminders before it didn’t land.

    Parenthood is basically shouting instructions into the void of nothingness. It’s where repetition is an Olympic sport and ‘for the umpteenth time’ is our national anthem.

    Do you ever feel like parenting is just one big cycle of repeating yourself on loop, or is it just me living in Groundhog Day?

    *Image by stockking on Freepik

  • HOTLINE

    HOTLINE

    In this world of computer tech and AI, some days I just wish for an old fashioned hotline. Just a plain, direct, simple link where I can actually speak to a human being.

    I’m not trying to avert an international crisis, but after spending hours on the phone, on hold, listening to all the bots loop the same scripted lines, over and over, I find myself craving the most basic luxury – a real conversation with a real person.

    When I was young (young-er), I used to dial the radio hotline, to request a song or to try my luck in a competition. Back then, the DJ would answer the phone direct and for a teenager, speaking to this mini type celebrity, it was pretty cool. It was easy and immediate.

    That’s the thing with telephone bots, they’re not direct, they are trying their hardest to not connect you to anyone. They just send me round and round the mulberry bush, until I’m dizzy with frustration.

    I mean, the President of the United States has a hotline – a real one – that connects them straight to other world leaders and security officials etc. What it allows is for a personal exchange to ensure misunderstandings are prevented. I feel being the president, that this definitely is a good thing to have……….. and on some days, I want one too.

    There are days, I wish I had a hotline to my Dad in heaven, just to say hi, or ask his advice on something, or just to get through direct to him to tell him I love him. A direct line, no hold music, no bots.

    Don’t get me started on the hold music. This is a whole experience in itself – loud enough to scare the dog, but catchy enough to stick in my head and haunt me for the rest of the day.

    Imagine having a hotline to God! Yes, we do through prayer ultimately, but, wow, calling him up and getting him direct on the line and having him sort it out pronto, well that would be something.

    I’m not ‘all against’ AI bots. Olive the chatbot on the Woolworths supermarket live chat, is an absolute gem. This cutie patootie virtual assistant is impressive. I order groceries online nowadays and inevitably, it can be common for the human packing my order to make an error.

    I can hop onto the chat with superstar Olive and with minimum fuss I can sort out a refund. I feel an affinity towards Olive, she doesn’t muck me around, she asks direct questions and most importantly, she solves the issue. Nothing to complain about here. I feel Olive is my friend. She restores my faith in the robot uprising.

    Anyway, that’s my two cents — now I’m curious: what’s your best (or worst!) bot moment?

    *Image by macrovector on Freepik

  • HELICOPTER MUMS / HELICOPTER WIVES

    HELICOPTER MUMS / HELICOPTER WIVES

    One of my previous best friends, in the middle of a massive month-long rant by text and email, about my son, told me, it was my fault Jackson turned out like he did, because I’m a ‘helicopter mum.’ She was right about the helicopter mum, but she was not right about my son.

    What was interesting was that I wasn’t upset about the accusation itself, but how she made it sound like such a dirty word. I wondered how she could dare to neatly dismiss my entire identity and Jackson’s under that one label. My existence came down to my parenting style, which made my son ‘everything that was wrong in society today.’

    Was I overly controlling with Jackson – no. Some of the things I’m proud of the most, are Jackson’s resilience and his kindness. Was I overly involved – yes. The problem with our vastly differing opinions, I didn’t feel involvement was the same as control.

    Over time, I’ve come to see that ‘helicopter mum’ says more about the person using it than the person it’s aimed at. It’s a shorthand for discomfort — for people who don’t like to see mothers taking up space, paying attention, or caring too visibly. At least, from her month-long rant, that’s the clear message I got.

    The truth is, I hovered because I cared. Because I knew what it felt like to be left to fend for myself, and I wanted something different for Jackson. I wanted him to know that someone was in his corner — not to fight his battles for him, but to remind him he didn’t have to fight them alone.

    That doesn’t fit the picture my ex-friend painted, the overbearing mother who crushes her child’s independence. Jackson has always had his own mind — sometimes to my frustration, often to my admiration. He’s kind. He’s funny. He’s resilient. He’s stubborn. He’s impressive at setting boundaries. Those are not the traits of someone raised under a smothering cloud.

    What’s interesting is how that friendship ended up revealing more about control than my parenting ever did. Her anger, her dissection of my ‘faults,’ was its own kind of helicoptering — over my life, my choices, my child. And when I stopped engaging, the silence that followed was the clearest sign that she needed me to stay small to feel right.

    After 15 years in each other’s lives, I then saw what I knew, but never admitted, she, herself was a helicopter wife.

    It made sense, suddenly. The need to manage, to hover, to control every outcome — it wasn’t just something she accused others of, it was how she moved through the world.

    It was a world I wanted no part of.

  • GO TO YOUR ROOM

    GO TO YOUR ROOM

    Every time my nephew comes down from Brisbane to the Gold Coast, my opening line when he arrives is ‘Go to your room.’ It’s a standing joke and even after so many years, we still all laugh and he jokingly hangs his head and trudges off dramatically with a ‘fine, I’ll go to my room.’

    Why do I say it? Well firstly because I think it’s funny and firstly, because it makes Drew feel at ease and automatically like he’s part of the family, which he is anyway, but this comedic gesture just slams that point home.

    It’s funny because it’s completely out of place — he’s just walked in the door, hasn’t done anything wrong, and I’m already sending him to his room. But that’s exactly why it works. The moment he hears it, he knows he’s home. He knows he belongs here, in this house where teasing is affection.

    It’s a grand opening line, that’s just a brilliant icebreaker, and seems somehow to set me up as the cool Auntie. It’s the perfect mix of mock authority and comedy, which Drew loves. It’s become our tradition, and it never fails to make him and me grin.

    It’s our secret handshake in sentence form — part joke, part welcome, and part reminder that family is built on the tiny, repeated things that only make sense to the people who share them.

    Every family has its folklore — those odd little sayings and inside jokes that seem ridiculous to anyone else but mean everything to the people involved.

    Who would have thought that a scolding line – something a kid would dread hearing – would turn into a family in-joke and create for Drew the feeling that he belongs here, that we have our own script and our own rhythm.

    Drew has an incredible sense of humour, dry, funny, witty, clever, hysterical. He makes me laugh all the time and this is my way of giving it back and making him laugh.

    It’s a lovely and funny tradition, that I now use with my other gorgeous nephews, Jack and Josh when they come to stay. It lets them know they’re not guests, they’re family.

    If I’m having a conversation with Jackson in the kitchen and we’ve wrapped up the chat, it’s not uncommon for me to say to him ‘Go to your room.’ What happens – he laughs his head off and goes to his room with a smile on his face.

    One day, no doubt, as this tradition continues, I’m sure the boys will repeat it back to me, laughing, when I go to visit them – ‘Right, Auntie Helen/Mum….go to your room.’

    What will I do – well, I’ll laugh, and I’ll go to my room, remembering all the years the line meant you’re home.

    *Image Adobe Stock

  • A CROCK OF SHIT

    A CROCK OF SHIT

    Carrying on from my love of using the word shit – it made me think about ‘a crock of shit’.

    It’s an idiom. Words in a fixed order that make no literal sense. It conveys a different meaning to that of each individual word used. On their own saying ‘a crock of shit’ literally means a crock pot on a stove top, which is bubbling away, cooking shit…………no, not gonna happen in my world. It has nothing to do with crockery per se and nothing to do with shit, but together it does mean something.  

    It means complete nonsense, useless or false information. When it’s voiced out loud, it’s almost said with a snort, to convey indignation, disgust or even derision.

    It’s rude slang and used to express how ridiculous you think something is. We use them in our house.

    Jackson tells me he can’t go to work as he needs to study for an exam – tomorrow. A crock of shit. What he means is, I haven’t studied enough and I’m going to fail the exam, it’s not my fault, but I’ll need to get onto it and have the night off work.

    This one is totally me. I’m just going to the supermarket to get ‘a few’ things. A crock of shit. I come back with five bags of shopping, spending $300 on the ‘few things’, plus snacks, plus other items I randomly yanked off the supermarket shelf, because they were on sale.

    What about the dog ate my homework. A crock of shit. Although Roxy the beagle has chewed my affirmation deck cards and angel cards. Am I seriously going to see your homework come out of the dog’s backside next time it does a poo?

    This one drives Simon mad. I’ll only watch one more episode. Sure Helen. A crock of shit. This means I’m attempting to watch one more episode, but I keep falling asleep, I finally get through the one hour episode, but it’s no longer 11pm, it’s now 2am.

    Simon uses these ones. I didn’t see your text, my phone didn’t beep, there’s something wrong with my phone. A crock of shit. Maybe if he turned his phone off silent, he’d hear the text or missed call. If I want to reach Simon, I call Jackson, and he has to take his phone to Simon. Drives me mad.

    What about I’ll pay you back next week. A crock of shit. In Monopoly money maybe.

    Jackson misses Uni. My alarm didn’t go off. A classic crock of shit. It always mysteriously fails when he’s had a late night.

    If you hear me say traffic was a nightmare, sorry I’m late, don’t buy into it. A crock of shit. I just left home 20 minutes later than I should have.

    Today, Jackson didn’t answer his phone. Why? Because he was in the shower for 20 minutes. A crock of shit? No, fact actually. I arrived home and he was in the shower, having his usual very long shower.

    Would love to hear about some of your crock of shit moments?