Verbal intrigues

A guy phoned me up the other day and the conversation went something like this:

Him: hello, how are you?
Me: I’m fine, you?
Him: My friend has given me this number to call.
Me: OK, what’s it regarding?
Him: I don’t know, she just told me to call this number.
Me: Did she say what about?
Him: She just gave me the number to call.
Me: Why?
Him: OK, let me find out from her first.

It took all my willpower to turn my back on such a clarion call to sarcasm. I was burning up to say “I’ve got a better idea. Let me guess possible reasons, and you stop me when you think I get to a plausible one”.

In fact, such conversational guesswork is not alien to many Ugandans. It is perfectly normal to provide your interlocutor opportunities to finish your sentences for you, as if to prove they are really listening. Our good friend the District Chairman, of petrol station forecourt fame, was particularly fond of such an approach:
“It is important that the community feel ownership of the what?. Especially when they see people from the United what? They must feel it is their what?”
It’s a bit like verbal tombola. As you guess, several throws inevitably miss, but when you hit the right word, your reward is a spark of connection with the speaker. It’s not quite a bottle of wine, I know, but don’t underestimate its value.

Close Encounters of the African Kind

In the UK, we are not unfamiliar with the speed hump, amongst other traffic calming devices. You could be forgiven for thinking that Uganda has enough potholes to render speed humps unnecessary, and indeed, it doesn’t have them. It has speed mountains. It is not uncommon to find you need to put it in 4-wheel drive and engage the low range gears to negotiate them. Not only this, but you are given absolutely no warning that a mega-hump is imminent, meaning if you don’t know the road, you can get a nasty surprise. And don’t be thinking you can employ common sense to guess where to look out for them, because whoever decides where to put them clearly doesn’t have any. Which is why I got all four wheels of the office Toyota off the ground (and mine and Volunteer Jo’s bums off the seats) a few days ago when some plonker put one at the bottom of a hill in the middle of nowhere. (The close encounter was that of the wheel with the wheel arch upon landing).



Friendometer

Mrs Elizabeth Grant of Lordship Park, London (who else would live at an address like that, really?) wins the prize of a shout in my blog for the most devoted friend, as she was the first to send me a handwritten letter on a selection of beautiful papers (stolen from a selection of beautiful hotels, I might add). Maybe this is something that unemployed wives do – writing letters, I mean, not stealing, unless things get really desperate. This is the second time Mrs Grant has achieved such heady fame: as a Miss she won a shout in my South American blog for pointing out that Dulce de Leche was available in the UK. I should add that Lizzie, though a wife, is not unemployed through choice, and would appreciate a job should any reader wish to provide one. I should also add that the only reason she’s getting a namecheck really is because she’s promised me a Christmas Card in return.

Working Hours

I sent our attempt at a contract to be checked by a professional business consultant known to be a regular correspondent in the comments section of the present publication, and he had the following response:

I’m sure you’ve heard the expression ‘you could drive a coach and horses through it’. I wouldn’t have a problem if I approached with the Exxon Valdez.

The rest makes painful reading.

Competition time ('spot the deliberate mistake', for those joining us late)

Come on people, this competition really isn’t about pointing out every last punctuation error, typo and verbal speck of dust you happen to notice, although I have to admit you’d all make superb proofreaders. You need to look at the bigger picture. You’re missing some glaring errors.

Ben did however notice the mistake of awarding a point to my Mum after I’d told everyone the answer, which means she loses a point and he gets one. This is a terrible thing to do to your own mother, I know, but I don’t want to be accused of nepotism.

My father has entered into the true spirit of the pedant by pointing out the difference between a retainer and a security, although I find his repeated citation of as disreputable a publication as Wikipedia distasteful.

Julia 1
Ben 2
Nigel’s Dad 1
Nigel’s Mum 0 (ooh, harsh)

And finally…

I’m starting to wonder if my parents are the only people reading this blog, given their monopolisation of the comments section. Where are the rest of you? Speak up!