We get so used to hearing certain place names that we often forget how they sound to outsiders and small children (or stuffed meerkats). So, I thought I would share some real life conversations I have had with Kit.
The first time we took Kit to visit his great grandmother, I told him to get ready for a car trip to her house.
“Where’s she live?” he asked.
Without thinking I answered, “Innaloo.”
Kit was very young then. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, he simply suggested, “Maybe she should come and visit us instead, because I don’t think there will be room for all four of us at her place.”
Another day I was musing about the possibility of bush-walking in Ellen Brook Nature Reserve.
“Where’s that?” Kit asked.
“Upper Swan,” I said using the common abbreviation for the northernmost part of the Swan Valley.
“Excuse me?!” he said indignantly, “I thought you just said, ‘up a swan.’”
“That’s right,” I answered, “Upper Swan Valley.”
“Well why didn’t you say so?” he exclaimed, “I thought you were being very rude indeed. Not to mention unkind to swans.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, suitably chastened, “I wonder if there’re any suitable walks down Rockingham way.”
“Stop!” he screeched, “Rockingham!” That sounds like a pig with an electric guitar! You’re making these up.”
“I am not,” I objected, pointing to the map.
“Oh, look, there are lots of others,” Kit said, excitedly flicking through the pages. “Manchester. That sounds like a very flat area.”
“How do you mean?” I politely enquired.
He explained, “It’s like something you’d call a woman with very small breasts. Oh, she’s a bit of a man-chester!”
“It’s what we call bed linen, here in Australia,” I told him.
“That makes sense!” he squeaked, “Flat as a sheet on a bed!” and he fell about laughing. “What’s Manchester really like, then?” he added.
I was in the middle of a scientific response regarding my absence of knowledge of the topography of Manchester, England, when he suddenly exclaimed, “Winnipeg! Enter the competition with the worst prize in the world! Are there any good place names where you come from?”
“Well,” I mused, “You might be amused by Kilbirnie.”
“Kill Bernie! Just like the movie, Weekend at Bernie’s.”
“Oh, and there’s a spot called Happy Valley,” I added.
“That’s not especially funny,” he pointed out.
“It is when you know that’s the location of the local landfill,” I told him, “And I understand that lot of marijuana is grown there.”
Kit fell about laughing again.
I am seriously considering blacking out Cockburn in my atlas.