Divided by a Common Language

(Please note: This piece is NOT designed to be taken too seriously!)

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I have never really got the hang of Americans. For one thing, they do the oddest things such as electing seriously strange oddballs as their Presidents. For another, they purport to speak English but don’t quite manage it. 

It’s not helped by their extraordinary attitude to sport. How can their kids possibly grow up speaking proper English if they think that football involves virtually no contact between foot and ball, and that a touchdown consists of running across a line and throwing the ball in the air?

And they’re useless at cricket. In their perverse version of it they can’t even put an “s” at the end of “innings”, and they insist on calling bowlers “pitchers”. Utterly weird.

They are also useless at place names. For example, why can’t they understand that there is no such place as Low-b-row? Can they not grasp the obvious fact that the first o-u-g-h is pronounced “uff”, the second syllable is “buh” (at least my enquirer got that one right) and the final o-u-g-h is “uh”. Surely that’s not too difficult, is it?

I was once stopped in Bognor Regis, on England’s south coast, by an American in a car who asked the way to the “ocean rout”. I gathered afterwards that he meant the coast road, so why couldn’t he have said so in the first place? It’s the English Channel for goodness sake – hardly an ocean. And what’s an ocean rout? Something like the Battle of Trafalgar? In which case he was not only heading in the wrong direction but nearly 200 years too late.

My worst experience with American English was when I was doing a Saturday shift at my place of work four storeys up a building in London. An American came up and said: 

“Do you have a restroom around here?”

This was the first time I had ever heard a toilet or loo referred to as a restroom. It’s not the sort of place I go to for a rest! So I thought he must have said “restaurant” - hence my reply:

“Sorry – we do have one, but it’s closed on Saturdays”.

He gave me a very strange look. However, wearing my best “helpful” face, I offered to get him out of his difficulty. I pointed through the window towards the streets below.

“There’s quite a good one a couple of streets away. You can just walk in – you don’t need to book.”

“You need to book in advance in London?”

“You certainly do at the most popular ones, but this place should be OK, even on a Saturday. Even if it’s full up inside you should be OK outside on the pavement.”

The American backed away from me, the look on his face being an expression verging on horror. I imagine that on returning to his home country he was full of stories about weird English hygiene.

At least he didn’t ask for the bathroom – now that would really have got me worried.

© John Welford

The Case of the Missing Doughnut: a story

The island of Eastray, somewhere off the coast of somewhere else, had a population of around ten thousand generally law-abiding people, which is why its Police Station did not see a great deal of activity. Its complement of one station sergeant, two police constables and one detective constable was therefore more than enough to keep law and order on the island, and the occasional visit of an Inspector from the mainland was a welcome break from the general monotony.

On the Monday morning in question, Inspector Jarvis turned up bright and early, bearing a gift. This was a paper bag containing one doughnut for each member of the station staff.

“A little something to have with your mid-morning coffee”, he said, before turning to Detective Constable Harris to ask if there were any cases on hand that might be of interest.

“Nothing in the detecting line”, he said, “but I’m due to give a talk to the children at Coldbeck School this morning about the work of a detective”.

“Can I come along with you?” asked the Inspector. “I’d like to see how that goes.”

So the two of them set off together, after the detective had first of all taken his doughnut from the paper bag and placed it on his desk, so that he could enjoy it later.

When the two men returned to the Police Station later that morning, the rest of the station staff had already had their coffee break, so Constable Harris put the kettle on to make coffee for his guest and himself. When this was ready, the detective wanted his doughnut, but – to his surprise – it was missing from his desk.

“It looks like you’ve got a real case to solve”, said the Inspector. “After everything you told those kids this morning I’d like to see you in action. What was that about means, motive and opportunity, and gathering all the available evidence?”

So Detective Constable Harris got to work. The “means, motive and opportunity” bit was no problem at all. Nobody had visited the Police Station in their absence, so the only suspects were the three remaining staff members. All of them had plenty of opportunity, and lifting a doughnut off a desk and conveying it to one’s mouth took no more “means” than a single hand.

But what about motive? Which of them was greedy enough to steal a second doughnut on top of the one they had already had?

Constable Harris’s finger of suspicion pointed straight at Sergeant Glover, who was – to put it politely – of above-average girth. This man would surely be hard pressed to resist the temptation of an extra snack.

“Did you eat my doughnut?” the detective asked.

“Certainly not”, the sergeant replied.

“Can you prove it?”

“Yes”.

This surprised Constable Harris. “How?” he asked.

“I’m borderline for Type 2 Diabetes”, said the sergeant. “I never touch anything with all that sugar. I split my doughnut between the other two, and I certainly didn’t eat yours.”

The constables nodded at this. 

Detective Constable Harris was left with no choice but to search for evidence. But what would count as evidence in a case like this? He had an idea.

“I reckon that it’s impossible to bite into a doughnut without spraying jam all over the place”, he said. I know that I never can. I will therefore search the place thoroughly for signs of red jam, and when I find it I’ll track the jam back to the culprit who sprayed it.”

“That sounds like a good plan”, said the Inspector. “Off you go”.

It did not take him long to find a red smear on the keyboard of Constable Bright’s computer.

“Gotcha!” he yelled, “Banged to rights! You owe me one doughnut!”

“I don’t think so”, said the aggrieved constable. “I had a nosebleed this morning, and that’s blood, that is.”

The Inspector was not impressed. “I thought that even you could tell the difference between blood and raspberry jam”, he said. “Or don’t they teach that sort of thing in Police College these days?”

Undaunted, Detective Constable Harris tried again. Another shout of triumph arose when he examined Constable Campbell’s desk. There was definitely something red there that could not possibly be blood.

“That looks like jam to me!” he said.

“You want to taste it?” suggested the constable.

So the detective did so. It was not jam.

“I love a dash of ketchup on my breakfast bacon butty”, Constable Campbell said. “My mum always said I was a messy eater. She was right.”

Detective Constable Harris was flummoxed. “Somebody must have taken my doughnut”, he said. “And it must have been one of you.”

“I took it”, said Sergeant Glover.

“But I asked you just now,” said the detective, “and you told me that you didn’t”.

“No”, said the sergeant. “You asked me if I ate it, which I didn’t. But I did take it, and I put it in a safe place just in case one of these other greedy bastards took a fancy to it, and here it is.”

So saying, he presented the detective with his doughnut.

“And one other thing”, said the Inspector, “when you eat your doughnut you will find that I gave everyone a custard doughnut this morning, so your search for raspberry jam was always going to be a fruitless one – literally as you might say”.

As laughter rang round the room, Sergeant Glover accidentally on purpose remembered that he had forgotten to change the wall calendar that morning and now did so – to reveal the date as April the First.

© John Welford

Something Raymond Forgets: a story

The gang – all of them – were very cross with Raymond. They kept telling him that it wasn’t his turn this year, and even if it was he was far too early.

We always go in alphabetical order, they said. And you have to wait your turn. Aileen was first, then Brian. You’re an R – you’re way down the list, and apart from that you haven’t been chosen.

“Why not?” said Raymond. “I’d be just as good as any of you lot”.

“It’s not our decision”, said Karen. We have to do as we’re told. If we’re chosen, we set off when the time comes. If not, we bide our time and see if next year is our year.”

“And anyway”, said Larry, “It’s boy then girl then boy then girl.”

“Which means”, said Rebecca, “That I’m the R this time round, not you”.

“I can’t see why you’re in such a hurry”, said Simon. “You may be all the rage for two or three days, get your name in all the newspapers and be number one item on the 6 O’Clock News, but then you fizzle out and are completely forgotten about.”

“Besides which,” said James, “It’s the height of Summer – something Raymond forgets. None of us are likely to get an outing for weeks yet”.

A wistful expression came over Raymond’s weather-beaten face.

“I haven’t forgotten the last time I got the call”, he said. “It was such fun. Back in 2013 – I went to Mexico, you know. They don’t muck about down there. Ten whole days I got – ten! I got some speed up, I can tell you. 125 miles an hour!

“Mind you, that wasn’t the first time I tried my luck in Mexico. Back in 1989 … “

The others soon realized that there was nothing that could stop Raymond from regaling them with all the details of his past triumphs. This was a guy in both his dotage and his anecdotage.

Raymond certainly had plenty to talk about. His greatest triumph – if that’s the right word – had been way back in 1983, and once he got going on that story there was no chance of anyone else getting a word in edgeways.

It was only when the phone rang that he was persuaded to stop. Olivia handed it to Hector, whose expression turned to surprise, then delight.

“I don’t believe it”, he told the others after putting the phone down. “I’ve got the call! I’m to set off for Ireland immediately then head for Scotland and Northern England! See you!”

With that he left the room to get his bags packed. Iona perked up considerably, knowing that she was next in line.

As for Raymond, he thought about calling his agent to see if there was any chance of another outing in the Pacific – maybe the Philippines this time? The Atlantic Storm Season was clearly not to his liking.

© John Welford

Half a Lifetime: a story

Simon’s interest in the martial arts of Japan began, and largely ended, when he was at school. Being small and weedy, but intellectually head and shoulders above most of his classmates, he was an obvious target for the bully boys and he regularly found himself having to exchange bruises for his pocket money or packet of sweets. Not surprisingly, he decided to do something about it.

A search of his local library took him to a section that covered the ancient arts of Japan, many of which involved self-defence. He wondered which would be most appropriate to his current situation.

Some of them looked like complete non-starters. He simply wasn’t built for sumo, and he didn’t see how he was going to get any of his tormentors to strip down to a body belt before grappling with him in a ring made from rice-straw bales.

Several of the arts involved weapons, notably swords and big sticks, and again Simon was not absolutely sure that the school rules allowed potentially lethal weapons to be taken onto the premises during school hours. He reckoned that, on balance, they probably did not.

That left unarmed combat, such as karate, judo and aikido. These looked promising, especially as they involved techniques for surprising an opponent and turning an aggressor’s attack upon himself so that he ended up as the loser.

There was only one drawback as far as Simon was concerned. That was that they all involved a certain degree of physical effort and, to be frank, Simon was at heart a lazy sod who would much prefer to spend his evenings playing computer games or reading a book than being trained in martial arts at the local gym, with all the jumping about that was bound to be involved.

That was why he was delighted to find a book on the same library shelf that covered origami. At first he imagined that this was yet another Japanese martial art, although he did not see how turning a square of paper into a model swan or elephant was going to be much use when he was confronted with the threatening behaviour of Jason Morrison during break. There was a page in the book on making waterbombs, but that was as far as it went.

However, this Japanese artform was much more to his liking than those that involved real physical effort. Before long he had made all the models in the book and his pocket money was then spent on buying all the books on origami that he could lay his hands on.

In a way, this also solved the bullying problem, because the bullies were only interested in petty theft and Simon without cash or sweets about his person was far less of a target than Simon with. Other victims were available for such attention.

For Simon, origami became an obsession that lasted him long after he had left school. His focus turned from making the models that were described in the books on his shelves to creating new designs and challenging himself to greater complexity in what could be produced from squares of paper.

He devised paper-folded models of just about every major member of the animal and bird kingdom and many minor ones. His attention to detail was such that he could produce a model of the black-bellied sandgrouse that was entirely distinguishable from that of the pin-tailed sandgrouse. He also had his paper squares printed in colour patterns that matched exactly the markings on his birds and animals when the paper was folded correctly.

He also became a paper sculptor of people, so that he could turn a single paper sheet into a perfect image of just about any celebrity or historical character one could name.

He did portraits. His clients sitting before him, his fingers would work their magic in double quick time and a three-dimensional model would appear in minutes, perfect in every detail.

Needless to say, his fame spread and he became able to command high prices for his work when Russian oligarchs, crowned heads and world leaders commissioned him for origami portrayals. Because he worked with such speed he was able to fulfil every request he received, flying across the world in his private jet at only a few days’ notice and flying back with a large cheque in his pocket, which was usually folded into a model three-toed sloth before being presented to the bank.

But did all this fame and fortune bring Simon true happiness? It is often the case that obsessive people are less adequate when it comes to personal relationships, and that was certainly the case with Simon. Women may have fallen at his feet and walked down the aisle with him, but these marriages, like his sheets of paper, soon folded.

It was while he was flying from Rome to Moscow, between commissions to make models of the Pope and Vladimir Putin, that he received the message that his fourth wife had left him for a paper recycling magnate. There and then he decided that he would give up having women in his life and buy a kitten instead.

So it was that he found himself sitting at a lonely breakfast table one morning with only the Times quick crossword and a young kitten for company. However, completing the crossword was made more difficult than usual thanks to the kitten deciding that she was much more worthy of attention than a silly newspaper crossword. Whenever he looked for a clue he found that a paw or a tail was just where he wanted to look, and when he tried to write in an answer the pen was knocked sideways as the kitten rubbed her face against it.

“OK”, Simon said. “Have it your way. I won’t do the crossword, I’ll make a model of you instead.”

So saying, he started to fold the newspaper into an image of the kitten, but that didn’t work either. Every time he picked up an edge of the paper the kitten either pounced on it or dived underneath it. Simon could do nothing. The kitten insisted on playing with the paper and Simon was rendered completely helpless. He had no choice but to give in and entertain the kitten.

It had taken him half a lifetime to master origami, but it only took the kitten a minute to master Simon.

© John Welford

A Double Proposal: a story

Robert, aged 36, widowed with a six-year-old son, viewed his marriage proposal to Emma, a 34-year divorcée, rather differently than she did. He thought she was just what he was looking for and the fact that his proposal took place on only their first proper date, just a week after they had met at a speed-dating event, did not strike him as being in any way presumptuous. If they were made for each other, he reasoned, why not get on with it?

Emma, however, did think that he was pushing things a bit too quickly and refused to give him an answer. As she said:

“You don’t know me and I don’t know you. You seem OK to me, and I might fall for you in time, but three minutes at a speed date followed by a starter course at ASK Italian does not strike me as sufficient grounds for making an important decision like this. I’ve been stung once before by making a wrong choice and I’m not going to make another one if I can help it. We’re still only strangers to each other, and you don’t get considered and trustworthy answers from people you don’t know.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asked.

“You bet I am”, she said, then went silent for a minute or so, which coincided with the arrival of their main courses.

After a few mouthfuls she said: “You proposed to me and I’ve got a proposal for you. If you can prove to me that perfect strangers give proper answers to real questions, then the stranger you are now looking at will give you a considered answer to your proposal.”

“And what will count as proof in your eyes, then?”

She thought about this for a few minutes. In the background the piped music changed from Mantovani to Harry Belafonte. Robert’s mind wandered into wondering why an Italian restaurant would play music by a Jamaican-American. Maybe they thought that the name Belafonte was Italian? It was possible. Did Harry Belafonte ever sing in Italian? Now there was a thought, but how would he ever find out?

The train of thought hit the buffers as Emma spoke again.

“Do you ever watch Pointless?” she asked.

“Sometimes”, he said. “I enjoy it when I do.”

“You know that all their questions are asked of a hundred people, and the scores for the various answers on the show are the number out of that hundred that get them right?”

“So they say,” Robert replied, “but I don’t see …”

“Let’s suppose,” Emma said, “that you wrote a letter – the same in every case – to a hundred people who were perfect strangers, and in that letter you asked a single question. Now, I’m not interested in what the answers are, because I simply want to know how many out of the hundred will reply to you. I’ll make it easier for you by paying for the postage, and I’ll even double that by letting you include a reply-paid envelope.”

“So you don’t think I’ll get many replies, then?”

“No, I don’t, because very few strangers give answers to someone’s questions unless they’re asking the time or the way to the railway station. If you don’t agree, here’s a way to prove me wrong.”

“Why can’t I use email or text rather than letters?” Robert asked. “It’d be cheaper.”

“And”, she added as an afterthought, “If 50% of your letters get a sensible response, I’ll concede that you’ve made your point and you can propose to me again. If not …”

“And will your answer be what I want to hear?” Robert asked.

“Don’t push your luck”, Emma said. “That’ll be for me to know and you to find out, if you ever get the chance – and you know what I think about that.”

So that was how they left it. They finished their meal and went their separate ways.

The next day Robert got to work on the challenge that Emma had set. It struck him that this was a modern-day version of the quests that princesses in fairy stories set their suitors – they would give their hand in marriage to the knight who slew most dragons. He remembered borrowing story books from the local library to read to his young son Matthew, but the lad was not all that keen on princesses and dragons – were any kids these days?

But – not for the first time – a train of thought had given Robert an idea as to how he might proceed. Librarians were used to answering questions, and something a bit out of the ordinary might get them interested enough to send a reply. Also, if the enquiry appeared to come from a youngster, might that not be an extra incentive?

Robert looked up the addresses of a hundred libraries, spread across the country. He concentrated on smaller public libraries, because they might not be as busy as big city ones and therefore have time to answer an enquiry of this kind. 

As for the question, the one that had struck him in the restaurant, regarding Harry Belafonte, sounded just the sort of thing that might work. He phrased it thus:

“Dear Sir:

Can you tell me which songs Harry Belafonte sings in Italian.

Love, Robert Elliott, 16 Tyger Lane, Romsey, Hampshire”

He then bribed Matthew with double pocket money to copy the letter in his obviously childish handwriting, made 100 copies of the copy, then got busy with the envelopes. 

All he had to do then was wait.

Did the tactic work? Did Emma relent and eventually say yes?

Well, a disappointing 20% response rather proved her point, but maybe Robert’s persistence revealed qualities that Emma did not find entirely off-putting. Let’s just say that Matthew is very happy with his new step-mother.

And none of the librarians could find any evidence that Harry Belafonte has ever sung in Italian.   

©  John Welford