No more Hostel Horror Stories. We moved into a house last Wednesday, we’ve rented a room each. Our days consist of job hunting, wandering around town and just taking it all in.
For the most part I’ve got my head around these accents. One of the housemates took us out on the town Saturday night, and the more she drank the more incomprehensible her Glasgow accent became. Before long every time she spoke I’d shoot Rhi a bewildered look. She’d shrug back so we’d say, “Ah ha ha ha!” and prayed she was saying something funny.
There’s a little supermarket just down the road that has one of those kiddie rides next to the checkouts. You know the kind. There’s a plastic spaceship or dinosaur, you stick in 20p in the slot, plop a toddler in, and it lurches back and forth for a few minutes. The kid proceeds to scream in delight and/or terror for the duration.
This particular vehicle is a little red car. And it talks. Every two minutes or so a little recorded voice goes, “Have a ride in me!”
It is an obnoxious voice. It’s the voice of a little bastard English schoolboy with knee socks and a freckled nose, the kind who’d kick you in the shins and steal your lunch money in the playground.
“‘Ave a ride in me!”, it goes. Over and over.
It fills me with an irrational rage.
I was queuing up with my overpriced vegies the other day when it bleated again, “‘Ave a ride in me!”
“How bout a bloody sledgehammer in you?” I hissed.
“Heh heh,” said the checkout lady from her perch.
“Doesn’t it drive you insane?” I asked her.
“Ooh yes it does,” she said. “Just the other day I was saying to it, ooh you fucking piece of shite, I’ll kill you, but then the boss came over and says to me, what did you just say and I said I said nothing boss and he said well that’s not what I heard and then…”
At this point her speech sped up, the accent thickened and I lost her completely.
After awhile she stopped talking and grinned up at me.
“Ah ha ha ha!” I said weakly.
“Erm… that’s three fifty,” she repeated slowly.
“‘Ave a ride in me!” said the car.