So we’re out at dinner, with some workmates of Mr T. (That’s what I’m calling T now. T sounds stupid, like an actual nickname; but one I would certainly never use. However, surely NO ONE could possibly think I would ever call him “Mr” T.) So. We’re at a little restaurant on the St Kilda beachfront, watching the sun go down. We’re talking about accents and pronounciation, and how people sometimes seem to willfully misunderstand you. Mr T begins telling a story, involving him & I on the Gold Coast on holiday, and how we had to write a note and went to ask at the front desk for a pen. The staff were helpfully searching high and low, while we stood there uncertainly, eyeing the cupful of pens on the front counter. When we finally asked if we could just borrow one of those pens, the staff just about died of laughter and explained, between helpless guffaws, that they had thought the request was for a “pin”, presumably to pin the note to the door.
Now this particular story is not particularly funny, or even overly unusual. Only problem with this … is that it never happened to Mr T. This happened to my best friend and me, when we were fifteen, on holiday in Sydney with her parents.
If this keeps up, he could steal my entire identity. What little there is of it. Actually, that would be kind of cool.
