Perky.
Have you thought much
about that word?
I hadn’t until
recently. But I’ve decided I like it
very much. It’s a flexible and evocative
word.
It sounds... well...
perky. Try it: perky. Say it with a smile: perky.
Say it with a skip: perky. Imagine all the instances
in which this sprightly and spirited word could be applied...
Personalities can be
perky. People and moods can be
perky. Responses to conversation can be
perky. Parts of the body can be
perky.
That’s how the word came
to me recently, in a rather intimate and flattering context. So of course that made me utterly predisposed
to like it. Still, I think my admiration
for the word is well placed. And as
beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I wouldn’t dream of arguing with the
handsome man’s chosen application. I’ll enjoy the idea for what it is, just as
I enjoyed his perky charm.
So now I’m back in London
after my perky Irish holiday, and I’m on the lookout. Generally Londoners are at their perky best
at the moment, friendly on the tube, dressed in bright colours, because the
weather is glorious and every other day there is some kind of summer event. If they’re not watching
an outdoor concert, play or opera, or rushing off to the Proms at the Royal
Albert Hall, they are sure to be stripped down to their shorts and reclining in
a park or holding a pint on the pavement outside one of London’s many fabulous
pubs. Ties and suit-jackets have been
thrown aside, crowds of smiling people with rounds of lager that never tasted
so good, under a sun which refuses to set, the ambience and camaraderie distinctly
jovial, decidedly light, and unmistakeably perky.
It’s true the Pommies
droop more in hot weather than an Aussie or Kiwi would, but even when they talk
about ‘heat waves’ that makes me feel a cheeky combination of proud and perky
that I’m southern-hemisphere bred; or ‘Tonka Tough’ as we used to say, after the resilient toys. “Drink some water”
I advise my wilting friends in a perky (and perhaps provocative) way. And they remind me then that “you aren’t half
so perky when it’s a long cold winter...”. But at
the moment so long and thankful does the Summer seem, that I toss my long locks
with a dismissive shake of my head and a perky laugh.
The thing about this word
is that ‘perky is as perky does’. Take
that laugh, for instance: I might have said ‘cocky’. Yet one can feign cockiness. It can be full of sound and fury. Whereas ‘perky’
is inevitably sincere: you can’t fake it.
Good or bad, it is what it is. It’s
an honest word. ‘Perky Polly’. There’s no arguing with it.
I saw one such little girl
on the tube the other day. She was so
gorgeous I wanted to scoop her up and swing her around and around in my
arms. Sadly the tube – and probably her mother
– wouldn’t have allowed it. So I teased
her instead. She was on the other side
of the Perspex at the end of the aisle, initially with her back to me. Her little hat was white with swirls of colour
and butterflies which looked poised to fly away. Her sleeveless little sundress
had even more colour – awash comes to mind – in a pattern which recalled a free
and hippy time, though there was less than a meter of fabric required from her
shoulders to her knees.
When she turned in my
direction she was singing. It was a
sweet song but I couldn’t quite place it, and I smiled at her light-hearted and
innocent expression. Her eyes were as large and round as the little girl in Frozen, in an ancient dark brown that would
have defied the creaminess of her skin had it not been tinged ever so slightly
with a hint of olive. Her hair was brown
and shiny smooth, cut into a perfect bob which framed her perfect face. Her lashes were as long as a camel’s, her
nose and chin as cute as a pixie’s but rounded in such a soft and gentle way
that it suggested a struggle between ebullience and shyness.
Her song was as a Mermaid’s
to a Sailor: I longed to hear more. But
she turned away again. And the tube was silent except for the metallic rock ‘n
roll of a raw and groaning track. I
poked my finger through the gap in the partition and touched the top of her arm. She didn’t respond. I wondered, like the Sailor, had I really
heard the music? I tried again. This time she turned those enormous brown
dials toward me, and the sparkle in them told me she knew what I wanted, she
knew I was under her spell – as surely hundreds of admirers have gone
before. “Please keep singing” I
whispered. She imperceptibly shook her head; though she seemed to like that I’d
asked. “Please” I proffered again,
hoping like many a performer that flattery would get me everywhere. But she held firm. She did, however, give me a smile that would
melt iron. And for the rest of the
journey this perky little creation, spun away from me, and back, away and back,
in an elaborate game of ‘peek-a-boo’ with a stranger who was mesmerized by her
sheer unadulterated beauty and innocence.
When she left the train, I
was not only dead jealous of her mother, and reminded (as I so often am) of the
love I have for my own nieces and nephews, I pondered how exquisite a phase in
life it is, around about four or five years of age, when everything about you
and within you is incontrovertibly perky.
Everything is bubbling, bouncy, curious, positive and pure.
And now that sweet little brown-eyed
girl wrapped in a rainbow of colour and a halo of pure light will remain for me
a metaphor of all that is perky and good.
That’s not to say, of
course, that perky can’t also be naughty... perky is as perky does... oh, a
most evocative and energetic little word.
(P.S. Thank you to my dear friend Jackie Manuel who,
after discussing my activities in Ireland, challenged me to write a blog with
the word perky in it. I think she
expected more moderation, but maybe not.)
