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Maria Miller: Not Known At This Address

By Ashleylister @ashleylister
There are few things that miff me quite as much as assumed deference and I have never understood the requirement to call court officials 'Your Honour', 'My Lord/Lady' or even (shudder) 'Master'. To me, this smacks of a residual feudalistic error, now corrected broadly across society but clung to, anomalously, in our more archaic institutions. 
I much prefer terms of endearment to terms of address.  Here, in no particular order, is a list of my favorite terms of endearments, as gleaned from a brief Google search:
duck, sweetheart, treacle, babe, sweetie, cocker, petal, honey, darling, chick, chicken, lover, pet, lass, sugar, sweetpea, blossom, poppet, luv, hinny, hen, chuck, mate, guv, son, dearie
Comparing folks to chickens seems to be a popular choice, and why not - it's one of the most useful creatures out there.  I quite like the term 'chickpea' to refer to my daughter.  It combines the best of birds with flowers and houmous which is no bad thing.
When I answer the phone at work it always delights me to have a stranger refer to me as darling, petal, flower, angel etc.  It endears me to them (as the term suggests), creating an immediate sense of camraderie and informality which makes me feel relaxed and warm towards them.  I've been called love by very young people, in shops for example, and that always makes me smile because it's like watching a child walking in a pair of high heels.  It's as if they've borrowed a level of relaxation or familiarity that belongs to their grannie.  
From the lasting frustration at the gendered terms of address (you're all Ms as far as I'm concerned) to the assumption of superiority which perpetuates in certain professions (the honourable... for MPs being the most ridiculous, and often oxymoronic, example) there is a certain desperation in demanding the correct form of address.  It's a societal superiority complex that needs to be, ahem, addressed. 
And so, a short, topical poem.
Maria Miller's Address
Petals and poppets of the jury
Please forgive this ninny
I'm a right muppet when it comes to numbers
Culture's my bag, innit?
Oh, there's numbers in my bag
Ninety grand at last count
But who's counting?
This honourable duckie said she's sorry
And you know the rules
Weren't written for a pet in a pickle
They're for the proles on parole
Look, Your Dishonour, can I call you Guv?
I didn't mean nothin by it
We're all pals here
No harm done eh?
Thanks hen.
You're a babe.
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