The opening words of the story undermine its argument. “Emeritus Professor”, spelt correctly, holds historic meaning: he is one who professes knowledge and holds his rank emeritus – from merit. Amerrytus Professa would mean nothing. As prezzydent of his society he loses any sense that he presides – sits in prominence – over its members. If school tests are loodicrus rather than “ludicrous” or frivolously gamesome (root, ludus, Latin), who knows what lavatorial meditations ensue?

The Spelling Society points back to the glory days when Shakespeare (aka Shakspere, Shakespear, etc) displayed blithe diversity, or to Dickens’s Sam Weller observing that his name’s initial W or V “depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller”. But the historic argument fades when we see how strongly the etymology of each word from Greek, Latin or the Low Countries shines in its spelling, and reflect how long that it has done so. The educational case is weakened by tens of millions of people worldwide managing perfectly well.

Moreover, the prime purpose of language is to convey meaning: a lawyer’s tort is neither taut nor taught, nor a restaurateur’s torte; flour is not a flower, a hart has a heart. Bed and board is not the same as bed and bawd, even with hoarfrost on the windows.

Some tolerance would do no harm: I could live with sallad and improove and even thru. But to simplify spelling you must ignore regional accents. Must the Prince of Wales write “hice” and Alan Sugar “fink”? Surely the language liberators do not want every English speaker to sound identical?

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