My readership being English and/or American this little problem of mine will mean nothing to you: After all, the whole world does speak English, doesn’t it?
The English are so polite it’s annoying. No, it’s not annoying. It’s tantamount to an insult. Because my brain fires on more than one language I will (somtimes) jabber away in a lingo not received. It’s all the same to me though English making up 99 point 9 percent of my day. A German or a French, particularly an Italian, will tell you to get your act together. Not the English. Only when their eyes glaze over and their smile stiffens do I realise I am talking NOT the local tongue. Have now decided to be paranoid – and will, from the outset, ask anyone whether I speak that which they can understand. I switch so easily from one language to another it sometimes escapes me which one I am speaking this very minute. Mental – as the Angel would say.
Even worse: My mother most definitely does not speak English. Yet, in my dreams (at night, when asleep) I have perfect English conversations with the woman I am so grateful to that she did not abort me. Not that I would know the difference {if I hadn’t been born).
Strange, don’t you think: Conceived per chance; from then your life hangs in the balance.
If I come across as more unhinged than normal it’s because I am. They are redoing our street. Fancy paving stones, Pedestrian zone and all that. And, by law of nature, before it gets better it gets worse. Which in my case amounts to the earth moving or rather the floor under my chair being decidedly shakey. It’s been days now them taking up existing tarmac. Can’t imagine what it’s like to be one of those “drill up the tarmac” guys. Mind numbing. Am considering to tell my landlord that I will deduct at least one pound Sterling from the rent for inconvenience. Still, he is Italian. And contrary to perceived prejudice Italians will love their Mamas but don’t mess with them. When it comes to money think The Godfather and that cut off head of a horse underneath your duvet.
Yes, so brilliant combo. The floor underneath my feet is shaking, the noise is deafening. I don’t like noise. If I want noise I play Beethoven or Motorhead. Top volume. Still, it is rather interesting to be at the mercy of outside influences you can do nothing about. Fab (that’s short for my landlord’s first name) has no sympathy: He thinks I should be out at work between 9 and five instead of letting my world be rocked by the council’s improvements. I can’t tell him that I mostly work from the privacy of my home. He won’t like it. Meanwhile I keep looking at her Majesty’s poster (in red) KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON.
Apropos of nothing or how did one of you say so classically the other day: Non Sequitur (is there a sweeter sound?). The Queen and her son. I have to say if I were Charles I’d be heartbroken and if I were his mother, the Queen, I’d be ashamed of myself. Why oh why oh why can she not let go of the crown and hand it to her son? The guy is over sixty and still hasn’t fulfilled his destiny – the one he was born to. It’s shameful.
And if that floor of mine rumbles one more time I shall take myself off to the next bench in the park.
U
