why apostrophes matter!

I've spoken before about how important correct apostrophe use is to me. It really, really upsets me that so few people seem able to get it right. When I see an advertisement for pillow's, or read about an elephant and it's babies, I develop a slight eye twitch. The longer I look at it, the worse it becomes, until eventually I'm a writhing, spasming wreck, foaming at the mouth and beating the floor with my fists.

I've tried to not let it bother me. Because really, It's Not A Big Deal.
Let's say it together: It's Not A Big Deal.

I know, deep down, that I'm just being snobby. I am a snobby nerd. I am a nerdish snob. These things should not overlap, lest you never, ever make a single friend.

So I'm trying to fight it. I tell myself not to let it get to me.

When that doesn't work, I try to put a cruelly positive spin on it: it's a good thing that other people get it wrong. It's an easy, no-effort-required-on-my-part way for me to feel superior. And then I feel better for a little while.

But there are times when apostrophes really are important to the perceived meaning. It's not just snobbery - it's practical.

When my mother and I visited my grandparents in England in 2008, we realised just how important a perceived - or not perceived - apostrophe can be. It's not just in text that it can confuse: in our case, we mentally omitted a single apostrophe, and it resulted in a great deal of confusion (and terror, humiliation, pointing-and-laughing and almost-pants-wetting).

It was summer when we visited, and we went for a late afternoon walk through the pastures and farmland that surround my grandparents' town. It was beautiful. We cut through fields and jumped across streams. We climbed fences and discovered secret, overgrown passages.

We came to a field full of cows, and decided to cut through it to get to the road that would lead us back into the town.

Now, we are not 'country-folk'. What we interpreted as 'cows' was actually a herd of adolescent bulls. Lanky and horny and very, very frisky. When they started humping each other furiously, we realised they might not have been the sweet, docile Bessy and Daisy of our imaginations.

Mum freaked out and refused to go any further. I was more stubborn, and figured the best mode of attack was to put my head down, ignore them, and walk straight ahead to the other side of the field as fast as I could, dragging my blubbering, wailing mother by the arm behind me.

We heard a low mooing behind us, punctuated by grunts and hoof-scraping. We could hear them quickening. Almost galloping. Very almost charging at us.

Hysteria hit me then, and I began crying and screaming 'WE'RE GOING TO BE GANG-RAPED BY COWS! WE'RE GOING TO BE GANG-RAPED BY COWS!!!!!'

But we made it. We got to the road. We scrambled over the fence and, once they realised they would no longer have the opportunity to carry out their sick sexual fantasies on us, the bulls retreated to return to their orgy.

But...it was the wrong road. Totally. It stretched as far as the eye could see, and there were no signs. Or traffic. No one to ask for directions.

We knew, now, that we'd need to get back across the field in order to get home. But, clearly, that was not going to happen.

Finally, a farmer in a pick-up truck came rattling down the road. He must've taken pity on our tear-smeared, pathetic, quivering faces, and he pulled over. I shrieked and sobbed, telling him of our predicament, and explained my worries about being molested by a pack of bulls and breaking my vagina and prolapsing or something. He gazed, baffled (or disgusted) at me, before chuckling, in his thick Somerset accent, 'Those bulls? Ahhh... they're just Nigels!'

At least, this is what we heard.

'N-n-n-nigels?' we stuttered, 'Are the Nigels dangerous?!'

This is, more or less, exactly what we saw in our minds.

He looked dumbfounded for a moment (which was at least an improvement on the horror on his face after my mention of bull-rape-induced vaginal prolapse), before bursting into hysterical laughter. Hysterical farmer-laughter is unlike any other kind.

For, dear reader, our minds had left out one rather important apostrophe in our interpretation of his sentence.

This has gone down in history in my family as probably our Dumbest Moment. My dad likes to talk often about Jerseys, Wagyus, Fresians, and Nigels.

But whatever, I don't care. They might 'just be Nigel's' (why was that supposed to be a comfort? Unless Nigel is some kind of Bull-Whisperer, it makes no difference who they belong to...they were evil), but in my head, those little fuckers will always be known as The Nigels. The most dangerous, fiendish cattle on earth. And I sincerely hope they end up in my next steak sandwich.