My first patriotic act was to wrestle my poor 7 year old nephew to the couch. Despite his kicking, screaming and cries of the Mercy Words, “Power too much” I held him down to the to prevent him from changing the channel and then subjected him to hours and hours of wedding coverage. In retaliation he kept badgering me as to when “Prince Catherine” was going to arrive, blatantly ignoring my repeated gender corrections. He then convinced himself that Camilla was the Queen, shouting excitedly each time he saw the horsy creature. He and his 10 year old brother positively wet themselves when they saw Princesses Beatrice and Eugenie’s headgear (very reminiscent of Rudolph the Red nosed reindeer in a fawn headpiece by Britain’s top milliner), this was nothing compared to the tears at discovering that Beatrice and Eugenie where real names, not ones I’d made up and that Prince William’s full name includes Lewis Mountbatten Windsor in there somewhere. I fear the solemnity of the occasion may have been lost on them.
The Husband so refused to participate in the day that he covered his eyes each time he came into the room to deliver me tea refills (truly I am naturalising so well – a day must consist of at least 6 cups of tea). So in the spirit of the occasion was I that I donned a printed summer frock and a cardigan to uphold my newfound enthusiasm for all things British. I trounced around the housed singing “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves…lah, lah, la-lee-la-lee-la.” Grew less enthused when someone filled in the missing words as “our people never shall be slaves.” Hang on a bleeding minute wasn’t the Empire built on slavery? But in spirit of forgiveness and chaste balcony kisses I decided to ignore this oversight. As I do rather like the British stiff upper lip pomp and pageantry of Royal occasions.
Obviously I do pang for my homeland. But a spot of eavesdropping in the pub the night before had helped me on my way to Britishness. From between the buzz of Britishness I heard a distinct South African accent and turned to spy a guy with a Mohawk Afro (quite hard to achieve so respek where it’s due). This particular gent was chatting to a group of foreign, very pretty girls:
Mohawk Afro: Howzit Laydees, you are looking bootiful tonight. I’m Altus. I’m South African and I’m travelling the world in 4 months, hey. [Checking out group zoning in on prettiest Bambi in middle]
Bambi-eyed Italian: English not first language. [Blinking massive doe eyelashes and pouting lips]
Mohawk Afro: Shoo-hey. Alright! [Giving the ‘laydee’ a sweeping top to toe, look of lust] Well let me say that you are beautiful and unique.
[Bambi-eyed Italian looks to friend, friend looks to Bambi. Confusion crosses their pretty Italian eyes. Bambi’s friend interjects]
Bambi’s friend: What unique?
Mohawk Afro: Unique, like one of a kind, hey. [Larger than normal hand gestures ensue] Not to be confused with unic. You are unique but I am not a unic. [Continues vigourous gesticulating towards Bambi’s chest and back to his crotchal region]
Bambi’s friend: What unic?
Mohawk Afro: Ah, bru…you know someone without a shaa-wing [said with musical lilt and waving hands in slicing motion in front of crotch]. But don’t worry hey I’m not a unic, and like in the land of the unic the one balled man is king.
Unfortunately at this stage I had to detach my ear from this conversation so I don’t know how Altus did with the Italian Bambis. But from where I was sitting that was a pretty poor spading technique.
Personally I find it a bit forward to introduce your shaa-wing into the first 5 minutes of conversation. Sometimes a lady likes a bit of romance and mystery- blushing balcony kisses of the Royal variety.
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