[34] Talking Italian

I thought I would update yesterday’s post into a longer one, as that was created while out after a few drinks, minutes before midnight.  So technically I have managed to continue the blog posts. That was all I achieved yesterday with regards to the continuation of my habit streaks, braining training and meditation are now firmly back at day 1.

Someone I know is considering doing nanowrimo, the national novel writing month which starts in November, which I have mentioned previously. I must admit when it was mentioned, I was envious as I have another idea for a book and would quite like to see where it goes. I have however one small matter of an unfinished one to deal with. I have decided I can’t start any new writing projects until I complete the existing one. So that means if I want to do it, I have just over two weeks to complete it. I have set out what I wanted to achieve with the blog, but it has taken time away from when I could have been completing “Unfriended” so I might start to reduce the frequency of the posts. The book had to be the number one priority.

I did say the other day I would share some of the “croftisms” that I had recently been reminded off. This particular one I think I must have blanked out on purpose.

Several years ago, I tried to start learning Italian, another one of my many projects. This involved a weekly night school course locally and some lunchtimes at work with a girl I worked with, who knew Italian. Needless to say, I wasn’t very good. I am not sure the Northern accent is made to speak fluent Italian. She was a great help however with my homework. It’s always good to have someone to ask questions and learn from.  Lunchtimes could be fun sat by the canal in Manchester trying to pick up some Italian. On one of these occasions, I was being taught some shall we say interesting phases that you wouldn’t learn in class. “Che cazzo fai?”  “porca puttana”  “stronso” and others similar. The first translates to “What the fuck are you doing”. I wrote them down as I tended to do with most of the words I was learning.  I completed my homework with assistance and handed it in at the class that evening. The teacher who was a middle-aged, dark-haired Italian woman pulled me to one side the following week and said “Martin, your homework is very good as usual” she then hesitated “But these words on the back” turning over the sheet “Are not very good, Italian’s do not like these phrases” Showing me the rude Italian works I had inadvertently written on the back of my homework.  I embarrassingly was very apologetic and tried to rationalise why I was writing rude works in the first place. She just smiled at me.

I thought after that incident that I wouldn’t make that mistake again and I didn’t. This time it was something else.

I managed to make it to the end of the course and the last night was an oral test. Everyone was going to speak for about five minutes in Italian, she would ask questions and there would be conversations. This was, fortunately, to be done in another room so no one had to listen to it. I’d had some issues with the trains back from Manchester and was running very late. It was a matter of quickly running into the house, getting out of my work clothes and shoes and getting dressed for the class. I grabbed my trainers from the cupboard in the hallway. This cupboard is one of those under the stairs dumping grounds that’s always a nightmare to find things. There is no light and I was relieved to be able to find my trainers as quickly as I had. I was at that point about 15 minutes late.  I jumped into the car and set off. It’s about 10 minutes to the class with traffic lights. I was just around the corner when I noticed something didn’t feel right with the clutch peddle.  Then I noticed on my left foot was a grey Karrimor style walking boot and on my right an Adidas blue suede trainer. How the hell had I managed to do that without noticing? I looked at the time and realised that it just wasn’t feasible to go back home. If it wasn’t the last week I would have skipped it entirely. I had no choice but to continue. Maybe no one would notice. I parked up and started walking, they were entirely different heights. I entered red-faced before I had even started “Buonasera Martin” The teacher said as I entered. I slunk down at the table I sat at with several other people. Thinking I could get away with it I then realised that everyone would notice when we went for our break. There was nothing I could do and then preceded to try and explain why I had two completely different shoes on a bewildered table full of people.



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