I had a tale to tell my colleagues the other day. It had danger, mystery and the potential for a lashing of ultra-violence (always a welcome ingredient). And, most importantly, I was the hero, with a fair few creative touches.
Lastly – and undoubtedly least – it was true. Well, more or less.
’Twas a dark and wretchedly stormy night, I began to my captive audience. While Canada slumbered, I left the Leader at an ungodly hour to brave the terrors of the unknown.
As wind-whipped rain stung my face, I turned up my collar, breathed in deep and walked towards the alleyway between two nearby buildings, the place where I had parked my sweet Violet.
What it was that suddenly made me stand stock-still will forever remain a mystery. It could have been a noise. It could have been a light. It could have been a sixth sense, a sense telling me “run, for God’s sake run. Don’t be a superhero.”
Yet a superhero I was, defying the voice. I didn’t move.
About 15 feet away loomed the murky outline of a bearish man. He was stooped by Violet, something flashing in his hand. The light arced downward, upwards and then washed over a wall. I could tell it was a torch.
Still I didn’t move. I remained a threatening colossus, knowing that …
“Hang on, you mean the man had a propane cylinder?” asked one of my listeners.
“Are you saying he had a torch like the one at the Olympics?” asked another.
Confessions of befuddlement erupted all about.
A cylinder? The Olympics? No, no, no, I yelled inside. Why have you ruined my tale just at the moment of supreme superheroism?
“I mean a torch, like the one in your cell phone, a torch for looking at things in the dark, a simple torch,” I said, watching the plot and atmosphere of my yarn (is that a Canadian word?) dissolve in the acid of incomprehensibility.
“Oh you mean a flashlight,” laughed my audience in unison.
I shook my head. It was hopeless. Utterly so.
How now to give justice to myself, how to relay the drama of standing still while the bearish man fled in humiliation?
It was impossible. How foolish to think I was good at this Canada-UK communication business, that I was bilingual.
To be fair I have made progress. I’ve got beyond the obvious booby-traps. I know most of the “you say, I say” stuff. You say elevator, I say lift. You say gas, I say petrol. You say fire hall, I say fire station. And so it continues. You say trucks, sidewalks, car hoods and apartments – I say lorries, pavements, bonnets and flats.
I’ve even learned a few anomalies, such as “packing”, which in Canadianspeak means “moving.” I owe that lesson to reeve Bill Lee, who told me had broken his ankle while packing tables.
I had images of him trying to stuff a gangly table into a suitcase, until he put me right.
I’ve certainly improved from the time I told a colleague I was going to the toilet to wash my coffee cup.
“The toilet!” she stammered, eyes popping.
After a few moments’ confusion, I learned that toilet means literally the bowl in Canada; it is not an alternative to washroom.
And yet, and yet, I still fall afoul of linguistic rules, as with my rip-roaring car story.
Now I know what Led Zeppelin’s Robert Plant was screaming about.
Communication breakdown, it’s always the same, I’m having a nervous breakdown, drive me insane!
