The formulation 100 means “one hundred” in the same way 20 means “twenty”. 100 does not stand in for “hundred”.
So why do some people write “a 100” when they mean “a hundred”?
Would they write “a twenty”? (Granted they could say “a score” instead – but, in the same way that a dozen when written as a numeral is read as “twelve”, “a score” can’t be written as a numeral. If it is, it is read as “twenty”. I can not remember ever seeing “a 12” when “a dozen” was meant.)
So why do we get this nonsense with “a 100”?
Still less should “100s” be used to represent “hundreds”. The word “hundreds” ought always to be written out. If it means anything “100s” means “one hundreds” not “hundreds”. There may be a subtle difference between the two usages but usually hundreds is sufficient to the purpose.
This folly reached a new depth for me when I recently read the phrase “a 120 miles an hour”. That would be “120 miles an hour” then, (a hundred and twenty miles an hour); not “a” one hundred and twenty miles an hour. There can’t be more than one such velocity after all.
I suspect this foolery has come in as people have drifted into the habit of writing the numeral instead of spelling out the number fully when writing prose. I was always taught that it was bad practice to write the numeral in such a circumstance.
I was listening to the car radio on Friday at a changeover of DJ. Said DJ found his controls weren’t working properly, none of his opening jingles fired and then they all went off at once. After the first song he then complained about when buttons start “to not work”.
Why did he not say “start not to work”? This construction is (or was,) after all, the standard way in English to negate an infinitive.
I have however noticed over the past few years the usage of “to not” creeping into public discourse from news reporters and the like. I’ve even seen it in newspaper articles. I can’t say I’ve heard it in everyday speech though.
I realise in some situations there may be a case for saying “to not” do something or other, when it is the not doing that is the point of the sentence. Otherwise not to do something remains perfectly adequate.
I suppose this solecism is really a special case of the split infinitive (as in “to boldly go”) but for all my life up till a couple of years ago the standard way “to not do” something was always “not to do” it.
I might wonder what Shakespeare would have said. Except I know.
This is something that has been bugging me for a long time.
Welfare [wel-fair] noun: the good fortune, health, happiness, prosperity, etc., of a person, group, or organization; well-being.
Why has this word become transformed into meaning something derogatory? Something of which those people who need it are supposed to feel ashamed? (Rather than it being to society’s shame that such people don’t have it.)
I usually read all the stuff about fiction in the Guardian’s Saturday Review as well as some of the non-fiction reviews.
Last week’s contained three items of particular interest to me.
The cover piece, Steven Pinker’s An Anti-stickler’s Manifesto was about ten “grammar rules” he thinks it’s okay to break sometimes. He says that some of them aren’t actually rules at all and others aren’t rules in English. You may be surprised to read that by and large I agree with him. But I do believe it is important to know what the rules are. This is in order that when you break them it is for a purpose.
Then there was an article about Martin Amis. In this Amis was quoted as saying, “Prose is foremost, and ‘if the prose isn’t there, then you’re reduced to what are merely secondary interests, like story, plot, characterisation, psychological insight and form.'” Secondary interests? Psychological insight is a secondary interest? Story is a secondary interest? Characterisation is a secondary interest? Is this last not what certain purveyors of genre (no names, no pack drill) are pilloried for not providing?
The final piece was an interview with George R R Martin, in London for the Science Fiction Worldcon after first appearing at the Edinburgh Book Festival.
Danny Smith’s secret is that his father is a multiple murderer. His mother has taken the family to a new home far from those who know their background. His reticence about himself is tested by Cassie Lomax, a bright classmate who finds him interesting. As the book unfolds Danny’s worst fear, that the voices in his head that drove his father to murder would manifest in his own, comes to pass. These belong to a family kobold, a Hinzelmännchen called Hodeken, legacy of Danny’s German grandparents – they amended their surname from Schmidt when they came to England. The weirdnesses build up only gradually as the book follows Danny’s burgeoning relationship with Cassie (both of these developing in a chat room) and his struggle against the kobold’s influence, during which the story ranges from modern England to Berlin (both of the Second World War and of the erection of the Wall in 1961) as Danny learns more about his family’s past.
Writing for young adults is not easy but Gifford handles all this very well, with clear lucid prose and a pleasing level of complication with the adults around Danny. He also finesses the necessity of information dumping about kobolds by having Cassie and Danny perform internet searches.
Caveat:- I know I have a bee in my bonnet about this sort of thing but it jarred that at one point the kobold says, “aren’t I?” Kobolds are Germanic. Rather than “aren’t I?” Hodeken would surely have thought, “nicht wahr?” – which would have made the rough translation “isn’t that so?” a better choice.
Speaking of Mission Impossible (previous post) I always hated that catchphrase, “This tape will self-destruct in ten seconds.” What on Earth was “destruct” supposed to mean? The verb is “to destroy,” not “to destruct.” (Fair enough, my dictionary defines destruct in terms of blowing up rockets. Not tape machines you will note, though, but rockets.)
Self-destruct sounds to me the invention of someone with a tin ear. What is wrong with, “This tape will destroy itself in ten seconds?” The worst that really makes sense is, “This tape will self-destroy in ten seconds.”
I meant to say when I mentioned the film Austenland that the classification certificate displayed on screen before its start said “Contains one example2 of moderate language.”
I admit I perked up a bit at that as I immediately therefore expected all the rest of the language to be immoderate. That it wasn’t (the extent of the “moderate” language was one “Wankers!” in the whole film!) might help explain my odd sense of dissatisfaction with it.
1This was the catch-phrase retort of the father in the sit-com Sorry! which starred Ronnie Corbett and featured an overbearing mother.
2The noun may have been instance rather than example. Whatever, it implied only one.