“The goat?” I replied. “Are you sure?” “Oh, yes,” said my neighbour, “ain’t you never heard that expression before, given up the goat?” “Well, not exactly . . . where does it come from?” “Ah well,” said my neighbour, “in the old days, when folks didn’t have much, and mainly worked the land, a man would set store by his animals, especially his goat, and when he come to die, he would bequeath that goat to his heirs, and that is why we say, ‘he’s given up the goat’.”

I am thrilled with this and from now on there will be no more ghosts, only goats. I began to think of other examples of fake etymology, all with their entirely persuasive explanations, a tribute to the exuberance and flexibility of language.

An Italian friend of mine, who learnt her English in America, calls her mobile her “self-phone”. Presumably she has heard it called a cell phone, but never seen the words written down — and it is a phone you use yourself . . .

I laboured long into adult life really believing that there was such a thing as a “damp squid”, which of course there is, and when things go wrong they do feel very like a damp squid to me, sort of squidgy and suckery and slippery and misshapen. Is a faulty firework really a better description of disappointment? In New York I passed a Vietnamese restaurant with a board offering a Pre Fix Menu. I went inside to ask about this, and was told what you’d expect about the food prices, so I asked why they called it a Pre Fix. “Yeah,” said the guy, “we fix the Specials of the Day every morning, but before we fix those, we fix the set menu of the day, so that’s why it's called a Pre Fix.” So now you know.

Then there are the mad malapropisms beloved of beauty therapists and hairdressers, where “specific” rolls into “pacific”. “I only do this mask for pacific clients,” I am told, lying under the mud, and I am not sure whether that means she thinks I come from further round the globe than Stow on the Wold, or that I am meek by nature.

I know a local builder who is always happy to do odd jobs for a commiseration, and there is market stall run by a couple of Bengalis that advertises all colours and sizes of “leg-ins”. Columbia Road market in London had a marvellous Christmas display of Holly Reefs, no doubt washed by the Yule Tides. I have seen a household goods stall offering Contract WindowLean, and in case you think that’s just a spelling mistake, the puff underneath runs, “cuts fat and grease”.

My father was in Ypres (pronounced Wipers) during the First World War, and like many of his generation, came back with bits of French. Ça ne fait rien turned into San Fairy Ann, meaning Stuff You, and then a new character emerged in Lancashire-speak, known as Fairy Ann; a got-up creature, no better than she should be, who couldn’t give a damn. “San Fairy Ann to you” morphed into: “Who does she think she is? Fairy Ann?” Noam Chomsky said that underneath, all languages are the same, which feels ridiculous when you are trying to learn one not your own, and somehow closer to the truth when we watch the way that words twist and re-shape and lend themselves to new meanings, especially as they cross countries. English has always been good at borrowings and refits, and continues to find ways of making sense, even of its mistakes.

“She’s blown-idle,” says the woman in our deli about the new girl. “Breezes in, blows out, can’t settle to anything.”

I like that because Mrs Winterson’s comment on girls who stood around doing nothing was: “'Bone-idol. Thinks we should be leaving offerings at her feet.” And if you tried to explain any of this to a foreigner, you could persuade them to believe you, because in a way, it’s all true.

I am hoping you will write in with some examples of your own — but no damp squids.

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