By the way, I hope no reader of this column is Hippistic, ie, has a philistine's resentment towards curiosity about words. They won't enjoy what follows.

Let's begin with body words: did you realise that a sciapodous person is unwise to have podobromhidrosis? Or that the philtrum on your face is found below the vomer? And that the feeling you get before sneezing has now been defined as, wait for it, antishoopation.

Are you a person unable to cope? You're in a state of copelessness. However, if you merely put your foot in your mouth at every point, you suffer from dontopedalogy. I have a friend who's a glot, and she knows it! (In fact it's becoming feaseless for her to keep hoarding everything.)

How's this for cliche mode? At this point in time, many of my columns sit on the back burner, biting the bullet and cognizant of a future interfacing in meaningful dialogue with the private sector, and though I try to reinvent the wheel within the context of their two-way street, the underutilization of viability visibly moves me; my obligational limitation towards them is painfully obvious, yet to do a number on them is like nailing jelly to a wall.

Did you know that gutters, furniture, ears, widows, tails and rivers don't necessarily have anything to do with streets, houses, faces, husbands, dogs and banks? They do, however, have plenty to do with some versions of the thing you're holding in your hand.

If your hotel room was numbered 14A, and you couldn't find a room 13, someone would be guilty of cledonism. Cledonism, (and that's an example of epibole), is similar to the use of escape words. Gosh! is it? And did you know we could all be lipogrammatics merely by counting to 1000?

Fed up with saying the same things about your sozzled friends? Try some of these: his elevator's stalled; lit up like a kite; mug blotto; needing a reef taken in; is fishy about the gills; is hicksius-doccius; is half-sober; is a drunkulet; slurks; has a guest in the attic.... Benjamin Franklin described the state of inebriation as making "indentures with one's legs." The noise some sloshed people make is akin to P G Wodehouse's description of a pig eating: "making a plobby, wofflesome sound."

But enough of the fairly ripped. How about some new-style (or long-forgotten) insults? A clinchpoop or a clodpoll, a fustilugs or a quakebuttock, a lobscouse or a yazzihamper, a skipkennel or a tatterdemalion.

And here are three bindles. First, Gore might need to reconsider its name. I see that gore means a small, irregular piece of land that can't be fitted into a township. So the township's name is a paradox - a township that's a small, irregular piece of land that can't be fitted into a township. What?

Second, one of the prime duties of this father is to carry, at all times, an extra muckender. Just in case someone has the follow-up to antishoopation.

And third, how are mountains formed?  By orogeny, of course.

Lastly, wordmakers over the last couple of decades have tried to improve he/she and other personal pronouns. Here are some fizzers: co, cos, coself; e and lr(!); et; hesh, hirm, hizer and wan or wen (as in policewan or firewen); jhe (pronounced gee); per; thon. Good grief. For Mr, Mrs and Ms we could have one abbreviation, Pn - pronounced, of course, "Person." And to ameliorate the much maligned mother-in-law, how about kin-mother, our-ma, or motherette? (Sounds like that one would spend all her time doing the family's washing.)

Hmmm, after this quisquillous collection, I think I'd better absquatulate out of here and become circumforaneous.