“Word of the Week” is a biweekly column by Allie Gruber about the joy of language. Every fortnight, she will choose one unusual word that tingled her ears and widened her eyes. She advises readers to pepper their day-to-day conversations with her selections. Everyone likes a bit of seasoning.
There are certain words in the English language that are, quite simply, delightful. Natter. Snuff. Babble. No one who has been told to “Make haste quick!” has ever resented the speaker of these syllables. Tell your brother to “Get your fetid feet out the fucking door,” and a nasty fistfight may break out before you reach the garden gate. But tell him to “Make haste,” and the worst you can expect is a short chuckle, an eye-roll, and a muffled accusation that you sound more and more like your old Aunt Betsy with every passing day. So be it.
Words are like people. Some are charming; others aren’t. Some command respect; others don’t. Some you want to encounter again; others never again. My column invites you to greet new words as you would passing faces on your carriage journey through life. I will draw your attention to a smattering of words—one every fortnight or so—which are among the loveliest in the English language. Treat my word offerings as you would a new acquaintance. Greet them with an open mind, a cheeky smile, a tip of the hat. Then, if you’re feeling daring, give them a whirl. Some might surprise you. Perhaps some will stick. You may even make a lifelong friend.
This week’s selection is as enticing a word as you’ll ever find. Lollygag. It’s a more spirited way of saying, essentially, fooling around and doing fuck all. Let me be clear as day: The act of lollygagging is not a good thing. Chronic lollygaggers are near relatives of chronic procrastinators, avoiders, and, worse, doom-scrollers. All these afflictions spring from the same cursèd seed. Laziness. To be accused of lollygagging is to be accused of futility, ineffectiveness, failure.
And yet. And yet! The word itself is impossible not to love. If Lollygag were a person, he’d be the dilly-dallying youngest sibling who struggles to keep up with his family on long walks through the country. “Speed up, darling Lollygag!” his mother would cry, hustling him along with her lopsided bonnet and her mud-spattered muslin shawl. “It’s high time you learn to tie your laces. They come undone every five minutes!” To which Lollygag would reply: “I’m sorry, mama. I only learned to double-knot them yesterday!” Or perhaps Lollygag would be the jester at Henry VIII’s court. He’d prance into Windsor Castle on his donkey, clad in bright yellow breeches and a chequered motley coat. “All make way for Mr. Lollygag!” announce the courtiers, and everyone rises and cheers and clinks their beer glasses in rowdy jollity. The word commands attention. It brims with personality. Say it without cracking a grin, and you’ll fail. Go on, try it.
But, you might be wondering, how am I to use it in everyday speech? Where might I find my opening? And—if I do use it—won’t I sound like a posey, toffee-nosed buffoon?
No, is the short answer. Not a smidge. There are a great many ways this delectable crumb may be slid into everyday conversation. Next time you march through Cross Campus and spot a group of your friends loafing on the grass, you might try confronting them for their indolence. “Oh, stop lollygagging,” you ought to shout, “and get back to your problem sets and essay plans. You lazy wagtails!” (Note: It is only advisable to deliver this command to close friends. If administered to a stranger, you risk being confronted with any number of unpleasant things: crying, staring, shouting, hissing, spitting, punching, or—if you’re particularly hapless—a fat, round slap across your right cheek.)
But even if you were to address your friends—even if the victims of your reproach were your dearest, darling loved ones—you may still be worried about appearing unfriendly. Don’t be. The word “Lollygag” is remarkable because it softens any blow you may wish to give. If you were to use any other word—if you were to have chosen “idling” or “lying limply” or even “doing bugger all and wasting away your transient bloom of youth”—your reproach would be very unpleasant indeed. If delivered with the right blend of frustration and ferocity, it might even recall the shrill, admonishing naggings of a strict mother. “Oh, stop sitting around all day,” Mrs. Hatchett might say to her fifteen-year-old, eyes-glued-to-her-TikTok daughter. “You’re in high school now. It’s time you start doing something with your time!”
Fret not. You will not sound like Mrs. Hatchett. You will not even sound like an obnoxious twenty-something-year-old college student trying to integrate big words into her vocabulary. The charm of the word “Lollygag” lies in this: It does not ask to be taken seriously. Plop it in the most serious of sentences, and it will convert darkness into levity. “While she was lollygagging on Hampstead Heath, Berthe was murdered.” How tragic! And yet, at the same time, how comic! What makes “Lollygag” more enthralling is that it belongs to a set of associated words that, if not quite as palatable as “Lollygag,” do not fail to produce a smirk in any unsuspecting listener. “Stop this tomfoolery at once!” you might say to your conniving toddler twins. Or, if you wanted to rebuke the concert etiquette of your fidgety younger siblings, you could cry, “Quit skylarking! Quit horsing around! We’re at Carnegie Hall, not your playroom!” These are fine alternatives, but they don’t command quite the same level of wide-eyed attention as our fine friend, Mr. Lollygag.
The magic of “Lollygag” is really very simple. Anyone who uses it becomes instantly more likeable. The word seems somehow to take itself seriously by not taking itself too seriously. Perhaps we can all learn from this peculiar blend of serious and non-serious, of the majestic and the absurd. If we each aligned ourselves more closely with the spirit of Lollygag—well then, the world would be a more joyous place. Only then might we indulge in some light tomfoolery before class. Only then might we reward ourselves by horsing around in the box seats at Carnegie Hall. Only then might we stretch out our legs, point our feet to the sky, and enjoy a nice long session of lollygagging on Cross Campus.
