Plumber just rang to say he’s on his way.
“Yeah mate, I’m runnin’ about for’y minutes behind so I’m on my way, alright?” he said.
“Yeah, no worries, mate,” I replied, as though emerging from the Old Vic with a box of tools and a flat cap. I’ve no idea why I do this. It’s almost like a reflex. I’ve wondered before, whether I’d slide the other way if ever I went to some posh do. Would I lengthen my vowels and slip effortlessly into RP? Would one clip one’s consonants to a crisp ting on the tongue? Well would one, Jacob Rees-Mogg?
I hope not. For one thing, I just wouldn’t have the common language to communicate with the Penelope Farmer-Toppingtons and the Ruperts. At least the plumber kind of gets me.
I think it’s Wittgenstein who argues that if animals could talk English, we still would have no idea what they were saying. I expect that’s it. No common frame of reference, no codified use of English that humans in tribes use to communicate - how could we learn it? How could they?
“Well it really was jolly inebriating,” says Penelope.
“Sorry, love?”
“The champers. Chateauneuf? I’ve had Spumante tasting more like it, away in the summer place, as free and as sparkling as acqua minerale straight from the slopes. My gosh! And coming from the taps! Utterly splendid.”
“You had… champagne coming outta your taps? Well I’ll be. Never ‘eard anythin’ like it in all.”
“In all what?”
“Me years.”
“Your ears?”
“No, me ears, luv, me luggers, me lords!”
“Sounds dreadfully serious. You’d better entrez-vous tout-suite!”
Wittgenstein might have been right. Anyway, I’ve got a plumber waiting.
Cheers pal.
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