Converzationi

A couple of my friends are from Lanarkshire. The lady of the pair is tall and lean and possessed of that loud, clear diction so beloved of the finishin schools of Hamilton. Dressed up in her Women's Institute bondage gear she looks quite scary. In fact she's a real pussycat, though she'd strongly object to such a slur on her character. At first, and second, glance you'd think her partner a quieter, more contemplative sort and the steadying influence in the relationship. Looks can be deceiving: he's the one who'll tell a coach party to stop rustling their toffee papers because he's trying to watch the play.

We were in a restaurant the other day. Nice place, good food. The party next to use were a group of young blokes in their cups talking bollocks. One in particular was issuing forth with his banalities in an especially loud bray. I could see my companions tensing up. I wasn't much fussed myself: my inner recording angel was enjoying the cabaret.

"If I shaved my beard off I'd look just like my twin brother. It's uncanny!"

"Look, I'm all in favour of the European Union. All I'm saying is that we shouldn't have anything to do with it except as a controlling power to stop Brussels taking over the continent."

"How many of us have got a Gilette razor? I've got a Gilette razor. I bought it so that if I shaved my beard off I'd have a Gilette shave."

In the end my friend snapped:

"Excuse me. Please could you keep the volume down? It's not as if you're interesting."

They muttered apologies and settled down and we resumed our conversation. Being a very serious foodie, the lady had been annoyed by a recent promotion that had concentrated on the size of the pizza rather than the quality. As she told our now very quiet corner of the restaurant:

"Och, seven inches should be enough to satisfy anybody!"