Collecting lists of melancholy events can make anyone’s day a bit peelie-wally

Miles Kington, a columnist for the London Times, is a droll fellow.

You may remember that recently I used an idea of his--a list of minor events that can ruin one’s day--and added several of my own.

One of his was: “There is nothing more melancholy than coming across an old photograph of a very pretty girl inscribed ‘Love from Monica’ and not remembering who Monica was.”

One of mine was: “Mentioning Iwo Jima to a teen-ager and having him ask, ‘What’s that?’ ”

The other day I received a letter from Kington thanking me, among other things, for spelling his name right.

“Melancholy,” he said, “is that light grey emotion which we tend to slide into when people we know quite well spell our name wrong, and which colours the rest of the day. In your case, you spelt my name right (most people spell it Kingston ) and coloured the rest of my day bright pink.”

To tell the truth, I thought his name probably was Kingston, but I decided that if the London Times chose to make a typographical error, who was I to correct it?

“I am writing,” Kington said, “you won’t be surprised to hear, to say that somebody showed me your column . . . and to record my satisfaction at being quoted in what Alistair Cooke called yesterday the second finest newspaper in the U.S.A. He didn’t say what the finest was, but I suppose half a dozen papers in the N.E. will assume it refers to them.

“Your friend (William Paul) Blair calls my choice of items rather mild on the melancholy scale, and he is right, but then again melancholy is a mild emotion. If I found a black widow spider in my gum boot, I wouldn’t be melancholy about it--I would probably compromise by rushing down to the Natural History Museum and slamming the spider on the desk, shouting, ‘Here is a very rare spider, and kill it for me!’

“My father used to have a few 78s by a singer called Whispering Jack Smith, and I had often wondered what happened to him. Nice to know you have your own column now. I suppose with the invention of amplification, whispering rather went out of style. . . .”

George Saturensky of Costa Mesa writes that he visits Scotland every summer to take classes in Scottish country dancing at St. Andrews University, and that he has grown accustomed to Kington’s style.

He encloses some Scottish words discovered by Kington while he was in Edinburgh for the festival. Saturensky reprinted Kington’s glossary in the Orange County CEilidh, which he says is a Gaelic word meaning an informal entertainment, and is pronounced kaylay , if you can believe it.

If you would like to build your vocabulary, here are Kington’s Scottish words:

“ Dreep --To hang from the top of a wall by the full stretch of your arms and then drop off. (If you have a friend stuck on top of a wall in England, you have to shout, ‘Hang from the top of the wall by the full stretch of your arms and then drop off!’ How much simpler to shout ‘Dreep!’)

“ Kelty --As in ‘to give someone kelty,’ which means to force a large alcoholic drink on a person who has tried to avoid drinking.

“ Shoggly --Something wobbly like shoggly handwriting.

“ Plouk --It’s an excellent word for spot or pimple.

“ Peelie-wally --A hundred times more suggestive than feeling a bit off-color, and I’ve been longing to use the word ever since. Unfortunately my plans have been thwarted by a run of good health. . . .”

Meanwhile, Kington’s list has been an inspiration to the pupils of Margery M. Langsam’s second-grade class at Castlebay Lane School, Northridge.

Under the heading of “Misery Is,” they produced the following:

“Getting the chicken pox.

“Being anywhere (but home) and having to go to the bathroom.

“When you are going to write a story and can’t think of one.” (I have that problem all the time. I imagine Kington does too.)

“When your little brother breaks something and you get in trouble.” (There ain’t no justice.)

“When the lunch menu changes from spaghetti to fish.

“When we got to the airport and the plane was gone.

“Sitting in a hard chair till 2:30.

“When your little sister takes your things upstairs.

“When your swimsuit falls off at the beach--in the ocean.” (Somehow that gets more miserable the older you get.)

“When your mom gives away your favorite dress.” (It only means you’re growing up.)

“When you go camping in a motorhome and sleep outside.” (There ain’t no justice.)

“When your bunny escapes.

“Coming to a new school and not knowing anyone.” (That’s real misery.)

Wil Goodwin of Sunland writes as follows:

“Apropos of your recent column based on the melancholy experiences of Miles Kingston, I found it equally distressing a few months ago to come across a snapshot of a fulsome young woman, looking out of the photo with sloe, promising eyes. A note on the reverse side asked, ‘Remember the night in Pismo Beach? In the morning your watch had stopped at a quarter of 3--Marguerite.’

“I remembered only too well Marguerite, the night, the magical hour, but was unable to recall where Pismo Beach was.”

It would make you melancholy to spend the night with a fulsome (foul) young woman. Maybe she was fulsome because she had spent the night digging Pismo’s famous clams.

By the way, Kington concluded:

“I liked your list of melancholy-producing items. But what’s Iwo Jima?”

Dreep, Kington!