I sat behind a woman on the bus this morning who was talking non-stop on her mobile:
Her; Awenn-i lemme newoyolo, il avait vingt mille, mais, it’s for my father, mon dieu, he’s ill, c’est limmana nayinke… She nattered on happily, continually hopping from language to language, whoever she was speaking to presumably equally fluently multi-lingual. The effect was musical and tantalising; how much would I understand of my eavesdropping before she jumped back into Wolof (or whatever it was)?
Here in the office, Roxana took a telephone message for Dave from a Mr Smite. That’s bad enough as names go, but she scrawled it down in a hurry, only for Dave to reappear a moment later looking concerned, saying “Is this guy’s name really Shite?”
It’s a magical, surreal world out there.