Notice fresh-looking scar on ankle, ask her what it is, she says 'winged vampire with tiny wings' and makes motions like a sparrow chick flapping around and gives a series of squeals. A very underfed British vampire, perhaps.
In France, after a litre or two of beer, I insist on speaking French and she insists on replying in Sinhalese. The waiter, sensible man that he was, went with zee English language. I call out to a 6 year old goldilocks next to us and say "Elle est 'opeless". Goldilocks sniggers and hides in her dad's tummy.
She wakes up in the middle of the night with mosquito bites. I do praetorian guard duty, successfully extinguishing the lives of two mosquitosassins. She says she hears a third one buzzing around and goes to sleep. I stay wide awake in the darkness, hearing subliminal buzzes well into the dawn. At breakfast, she looks like she wants to say "why the zombie look?" but sticks to "you look tired". Good girl.
The French waitress at the cafe in vieux Lyon throws up her hands in horror and says "Encore?!" when I ask for my third pain-au-chocolat. I wonder what she'll do when I ask her for ice-cream later. Beaucoup-French-eye-popping sounds ensue 5 minutes later when I ask for 'deux scoops' , blatantly insensitive , IMHO, to the the grave needs of Indian vegetarians for every spare vegetarian protein molecule that can be found in Lyon.
Image from www.mochimochiland.com
