On holiday I actually did 3 sessions in the gym and 4 stretching-type sessions. I hesitate to say Pilates or yoga, because they weren’t like any Pilates or yoga I’ve ever done, but hey… Anyway, don’t sit there gaping like that – I do occasionally do some activity once in a while. A trout’s got to keep fit, otherwise those minxes will (continue to) run rings round me.
So, one of the stretching sessions was excrutiatingly painful. Not physically, but socially. I was the only person in the class, and the instructor was half my age, it was the first session she’d ever taught and she was nervous. And chatty with it. And I was in the mood for a quiet, anonymous, relaxing 45 minutes. And I’m Glaswegian, she was Bulgarian and we could barely make out each other’s accented English. She looked shockingly similar to, and had the same child-like inquisitiveness and endearing-ness, as Jade Goody.
Halfway through the session, she asked where in England I came from.
“I’m not English; I’m Scottish”, I proudly said.
“Oh…”, she blinked. Then thought. Then blinked again, thoughtfully. “How do you say ‘What’s my name’ in Scottish?” she asked, innocently. I explained calmly that we speak English in Scotland, just with a funny accent. Damn being responsible! There was my big chance to teach a stranger to hail fellow strangers with a lusty: “Ho, bawbag..! Whit’s aaaaaaaaaaaap?!”