My dear and elegant cousin Timothy, happily retired from the London rat race and blissfully married to the nicest man in the world, has taken to whiling occasional afternoons by serving tea at a friend’s teashop, a pretty little place with the impossibly charming name of The Cobbles, serving delectable fare in the absurdly picturesque little English country town of Rye, in Sussex. It is a job in which he says he’s having more fun in paid employment than he has ever before in his life: his commute involves neither crowded train carriage nor busy city streets but a pleasant stroll through a series of leafy lanes; his colleagues are congenial, his stress minimal, and his clientele nothing short of delightful, because who isn’t in a good mood when taking tea in a tea shop called The Cobbles?
The other day, he was summoned to table by a customer, a well-dressed not-English lady in well-groomed late middle age.
“Excuse me, please,” she said politely, in what was mostly excellent English. “If you would be so kind, I would like you to give me …” and went on to make a request that Timothy says no one has publicly made of him for years, and certainly not over Earl Grey and a slice of Victoria sponge sandwich in a teashop on the appropriately cobbled streets of Rye.
“What did you just say?” he said, after he had at last located his vocal chords.
The customer leaned forward a little in her chair.
“I would like,” she repeated, obligingly, in slightly elevated tones. “A (bleep).” And pointed a tastefully manicured finger across the room to the counter, where sat the object of her desire.
“Oh,” said Timothy, and went to bring her that which she had requested.
“Thank you,” said the customer, flashing her pearly white teeth in acknowledgement.
“You’re welcome,” said Timothy. “But in case you ever want to ask for it again, I should tell you that it’s pronounced fork.”
The customer smiled, and nodded her impeccably coiffured head.
“(Bleep),” she agreed, sunnily.
“No,” said Timothy, who is a kindhearted man and did not like to think of this pleasantly smiling lady’s embarrassing herself on her further travels through England’s green and pleasant land. “It’s not a (bleep). You really mustn’t call it that. It’s a fork.”
The customer furrowed her perfectly plucked eyebrows in concentration.
“(Bleep),” she echoed carefully.
“Fork,” said Timothy. “Faawk. Or, if you’re American, you can say forrrk. But please don’t say (bleep), it’s a bad word in English and if you say it in the wrong place, it might get you into trouble.”
The customer pursed her discreetly rosy lips, took three deep breaths beneath her perfectly tailored jacket, and raised her head high.
“(Bleep)!” she shouted in triumph.
She beamed proudly. Timothy sighed inwardly.
“It is also called,” she added helpfully, “a utensil.”
“It is indeed,” Timothy affirmed, feeling that he had done what he could.
The customers at the next table were laughing so hard at this exchange that they nearly fell headfirst into their scones and jam, although whether their object of their amusement were their fellow customer or Timothy himself, Timothy says he could not be entirely sure. But adds that, as they had included a more than generous tip in their bill for the entertainment value, he is prepared to waive the question.
Wodehouse would be proud