Alison Goulding: Flossy, Peng and Totes

Flossy's

Flossy's

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Now I know how the dinosaurs felt.

On Tuesday you’re a happy Dipposlopapus eating palm trees and sunning yourself on a rock.

Wednesday the clouds roll in and Paul the Steramegafus starts looking peaky.

Thursday comes, your whole world ices over and you are left totally dead for millions of years until an archeologist digs you up, ties you together with wire and hangs you in a museum.

The warning that I am nearing extinction sounded last week with a Facebook post from someone technically young enough to be my daughter.

“I really want some Flossy’s” it said.

Against the background noise of rumbling thunder and imminent doom I watched as comments flooded in.

“Johnny is selling them from £15”

“Mine smell of candyfloss”

Etc etc.

If, like me, you are over the age of 22, you may well be asking what in the name of heaven a Flossy is.

So I asked, typing hesitantly, red-faced with fear and embarrassment.

The patient and kind answer came back as a type of Spanish espadrille flat shoe.

How you get Flossy from that I’ll never know ...

I’d plugged the gap in my knowledge but I was merely the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam.

“Those trainers are peng” was the next comment to start alarm bells ringing across my nervous system.

“Peng” it seems, is the new word for “lovely”. Or it would be, if lovely hadn’t been replaced about 30 years ago by a catwalk of more and more obscure substitutes.

After Peng came “totes” as in “totally” and then “meh” as an expression of indifference – each new made-up word like eggs thrown by horrible, bullying feral children.

I briefly considered becoming the luddite of slang and campaigning tirelessly to bring back excellent old school words like ‘mega’ from the word graveyard.

On the back of a paper napkin I decided that ace, hellish, boss, lush, rad, wicked, cool, random, naff, dude and groovy should all be ressurected to fight against these rubbish new words.

While wassup? How’s it hangin? and fandabidosie would be best left alone.

And then, after a long day, as I sat on my bed to drink a cup of tea and read a magazine, something awful happened.

I MC Hammered my favourite jeans – the material gave up the ghost and they split right through the crotch leaving my ample behind hanging out and my heart in tattters.

This being 2011 I immediately texted a friend I knew would understand my pain – after all, good jeans are not an everyday occurrence.

“I am ...” I searched for a word to describe the depths of my loss.

“Devo’d” I typed, and amidst the sadness realised that maybe there is hope.

I too, can use ridiculous slang and abbreviations with the best of the them.