My mother, a bookkeeper, impressed on me from the time I could link letters together that when you write out a cheque, never leave space at the beginning of the amount written in both words and numbers – otherwise someone might insert an extra million or two – and always cross out “or bearer” with two swift, sharp strokes. In addition, she taught me to write “not transferable” between two diagonally drawn lines at the top of the cheque.
These are things that parents will no longer have to teach and writers of cheques will no longer have to learn, because very soon there will be no more cheques, nor writers of them.
Standard Bank announced recently that it is phasing out chequebooks entirely, and SA’s other banks are following suit.
The expression “to follow suit”, incidentally, comes from the card games bridge and whist, where it meant to play a card matching the suit of that played by the leader of the round. In the early 1900s this became an idiom meaning to do whatever the other person has just done.
I mention this only because the word cheque – or check, as it was originally spelt everywhere and still is in the US – also comes from a game.
The word check comes from shah, the Persian word for king and the most important piece on a chess board. Which is, obviously, whence “check mate” originates.
Check as a verb evolved organically from the felling of a king on the chess board to the cautious approach – “to keep in check” – one should employ when engaging in any dangerous endeavour. Like writing a check in a careful way so as to prevent forgery or embezzlement.
Check as a verb has had some illustrious moments. In 1985, when 43 of the globe’s greatest musicians came together to record We Are The World, Band Aid leader Bob Geldof pinned a sign to the entrance of the recording studio that read: “Check your egos at the door”. The only one who took offence to this was Prince, who sped off in his little red Corvette and was not seen again (his singing part was given to Huey Lewis).
And then there is “check your privilege”, an expression that came into vogue after academic Peggy MacIntosh published a 1988 paper on white privilege and male privilege.
It is incumbent on me here to check my own privilege: I was brought up knowing how to make a cheque safe from fraudsters while millions of my contemporaries did not have parents with access to banking accounts.
When referring to paper money, check was the common spelling for pieces of paper representing money in all places in which an approximation of English was spoken, until in the 19th century those in charge of British dictionaries decided to adopt the French spelling “cheque”. For no reason other than pretentiousness, as far as I can tell.
Tartan comes in patterns specific to the clans of Scotland, a part of the UK which might at some point be an independent country with, perhaps, its own tartan flag.
This applied only to pieces of paper that served to get the holder some money. Check as a pattern of squares on fabric has always been check, and comes very literally and obviously from a chessboard.
But what about tartan and plaid?
When my mother was teaching me how to safeguard cheques against fraud, I would probably have been wearing my school uniform, which in winter, thanks to the weird happenstance of my Joburg primary school having been founded by a Scotsman, was a tartan kilt complete with enormous safety pin. This appurtenance inflicted many injuries on tender young flesh when not properly fastened. Such a thing would never pass muster in today’s health-and-safety-conscious world.
Our kilts were made of tartan fabric, as far as we were taught. “Checked” was for red and white tablecloths and other fabrics not of Scottish origin.
I have discovered since then, however, that there’s a lot of argument in some countries about the differences between tartan, plaid and check.
“Plaid” is a word I encountered only when (relatively) grown-up and working for women’s magazines, where periodically cut-off checked pants would be described by the pretentiosi as “plaid”.
In a lively blog by an Australian seamstress called “Threading My Way”, a recent entry struck a chord in my chequered soul. The blogstress, known only as Pam, had been confronted by the same mysteries: checks (two colours alternated) and tartan (Scottish patterns with checks and lines) had infiltrated her childhood, but as an adult she’d been confronted with the mysterious term “plaid”.
Pam’s research (bless you, Pam) revealed that a check is a pattern of squares, while tartan is a pattern of criss-crossed bands in multiple colours, and plaid is a cloth made of tartan fabric wrapped around the waist and shoulders. Except in North America, where plaid is not a makeshift garment but the word used to describe fabric known in the British Isles as tartan.
Tartan comes in patterns specific to the clans of Scotland, a part of the UK which might at some point be an independent country with, perhaps, its own tartan flag.
A reader of Pam’s blog backed this up in a comment: “Being Scottish, tartan is a very specific pattern or fabric using the pattern, whilst plaid is the term for the length of tartan worn over the shoulder and fastened with a brooch. Our eldest son wore a plaid at his wedding, and as the groom was the only one of the wedding party to do so.”
As Pam noted: “Language is continually changing and evolving. Location is a big factor in how words change in meaning ... flip flops in the US are thongs in Australia. Thongs in the US are G-strings in Australia.” And in SA too, methinks.
We may be able to hold words in our hands, but pretty soon no one will hold or sign or cross a paper cheque. And soon there will be no arguments about whether the spelling should be cheque or check, because it just won’t matter anymore. But we will still, thankfully, be able to argue about whether checks are tartan or checked or plaid.
Would you like to comment on this article?
Sign up (it's quick and free) or sign in now.
Please read our Comment Policy before commenting.