Chapter 15
Lesson 15: Never trust the word of a Scotsman when food is on the line.
Reading List: A Midsummer Night’s Dream by William Shakespeare (read)
Bridget Jones Tally:
lying douchebags—1
snouts—indeterminate
“Morning, Redbeard. Sleep well?” His voice was warm as I arrived to breakfast. He was speaking to me as if the awkwardness
of last night had never happened, and there was a newfound burgeoning friendship between us. By the light of day, it felt
like I’d imagined the whole damned thing—the chemistry, the awkwardness, the almost kiss. No one kisses a woman with a glob
of mayonnaise smeared on her mouth. No one.
I had overreacted and overanalyzed. That was okay, I decided. I was still a bit fragile, and I needed to give myself time.
I decided to match like for like.
“Like the dead,” I answered, “because being around you is utterly exhausting.” We grinned at each other, and then I went to
grab some food and sit somewhere I could keep a little distance.
We wandered about while our tour guide was busy making phone calls and organizing for a new bus. I had a surprisingly wonderful time puttering around a little sleepy village with a group so ancient they personally remembered Hadrian’s army and thought they were a nice group of dashing young men.
To be fair, now that I was getting to know them all individually, they didn’t seem that old anymore. They were certainly more
adventurous and high-spirited than I had originally given them credit for. They each had their own strengths: Where some were
strong and spry, others were sharp-witted or good at solving problems, and yet others were wise and knowledgeable. And (almost)
all of them were in perpetual good spirits, no matter what happened. And of course, there were those that played pickleball
nude.
They all seemed to have a wealth of stories and experiences. I had just scratched the surface, but the few I had heard so
far had been fascinating: different eras, different countries, different wars, different loves. I had stopped thinking of
the tour as them and me—two separate entities—and had grown to think of myself as part of the group. I was happy to count
myself among them, and proud to recognize that they were warming to me with equal speed and fervor.
After our morning walk, we all went for a long and gluttonous lunch, where I hoped to wash forever from my mouth the lingering
soapy taste of some violet candies that Lorna had given me. I had a yummy homemade veggie burger and chips with a gargantuan
wedge of banoffee pie for dessert. The pie was decadent and sinfully delicious, and the ladies explained to me how to make
it at home with only four ingredients, one of which was an unopened can of condensed milk that you boiled for six hours, of
all things! It sounded to me like an easy way to need a skin graft.
British Vocab List with Sentences that I’ve Heard the Ladies Say
fusty : stale or dirty. “Oh, I hate to wash my own hair, but on a trip like this, it does start to get a bit fusty after a while.”
—Doris
pudding : any dessert. “Should we go for a pudding then?” —Helena
pants : underwear. “Ooh, the pants they make these days are barely there. Give you a wedgie in the back and in the front! Not for me, thank you. I’ve gotten the same style from Marks and Sparks for thirty years now. Beige. Full coverage.
Can tuck them right up into my bra if I want to.” —Doris
chuffed : thrilled. “Just got a free scone because it was a day old. I’m well chuffed!” —Lorna
muckle : big (Scottish). “Well, that’s a muckle slice of cake!” —Lorna / “Well, that’s because you’ve got a muckle mooth!” —Madge
fanny about : to fool around or waste time ( fanny being the term for a woman’s reproductive bits). “Well, I thought we were all there to talk about Fifty Shades of Grey , and I was ready to discuss all the gritty details, you know, but all they did was blush and fanny about for an hour looking
down at their tea. That’s when I knew I had to leave and start my own bloody reading group.” —Doris
steady on : a way to tell someone to calm down and be reasonable. “But if ve all vake up early and leave before five, then ve can make
a hike and vatch the sun rise vith a good view.” —Berrta / “Oof. Steady on!” —Madge
shuggle : to shake. “And it wasn’t until I got to the Tesco that I noticed my pink pants from the day before had shuggled right down
my trouser leg and were just waving around like a flag for all the world to see.” —Lorna
got a face like a : a fill-in-the-blank-style insult that encourages improvisation. “He’s got a face like a two-day-old lasagna.” —Agatha, “He’s
got a face like a bulldog chewing on a wasp.” —Agatha, “She’s got a face like a ripe peach that got kicked down the stairs.”
—also Agatha
twat : also a woman’s reproductive bits (pronounced like flat and used liberally). “It was only a few teeth marks. Percy does like to chew. And they told me I’d have to speak to the manager,
but he was a right twat! So I told him he could take his precious ottoman and cram it right up his backside.” —Doris
Nowt (or naught ): nothing. “It was nowt but the neighbor’s boy tapping on the window, and there I was piddling myself thinking it was vampires
again.” —Flossie
gutted : devastated. “They stopped making my favorite lilac talc because it was giving some women cancer downstairs, can you imagine?
Discontinued! I was gutted.” —Doris
lost the plot : become confused. “Is that your bra? How the devil did you get it off? Merciful heavens! Have you completely lost the plot?”
—Agatha
taking the piss : joking, or taking advantage. “Two pounds fifty for a plain scone? You’re taking the piss!” —Agatha
ta : thanks. “Oops, your skirt’s tucked into your nylons. There we go.” —Helena / “Ta, my love.” —Doris
bugger all : nothing. “We’ve done bugger all since this morning but drink tea and eat cakes. We’ll be fat as hogs when this tour is finished,
you mark my words.” —Agatha
waffle on : to talk endlessly without purpose. “Oh no, Flossie, why didn’t you say so, love? Here I am waffling on about the industrial
revolution, and your bladder is about to explode.” —Robbie
The new bus was... well, what do you know!... an actual tour bus! And not just a rolling metal death trap accessorized
by Queen Victoria. There was heat and air conditioning to warm or cool our human bodies should the need arise—a novel notion.
The seats reclined. There were USB outlets. There was even a flushing toilet. What a time to be alive!
Our grisly guide had forgotten his extensive library of Highland bagpipe CDs in the other bus, so we resigned ourselves to
the disappointment of listening to actual music on the radio that had a wide variety on offer, from classical to oldies to pop. The ride was smooth, so the ladies who suffered
from osteoporosis didn’t have to worry about their skeletal integrity rattling away. And all the windows were wondrously fully
functional. I know this because at my earliest opportunity, I went around the bus checking that they worked, while our driver
looked on and rewarded my antagonistic efforts with an annoyed eyeroll.
We got to Stratford-upon-Avon a little later than expected, but still had time for a tour of Shakespeare’s birthplace and
Anne Hathaway’s cottage. The fact that these sixteenth-century structures still stood was incredible to me. Half-timbers,
thatched roofs, and flowering gardens that were crooked, winding, and utterly, perfectly charming.
We stopped for a late lunch, and I chose some footlong, rectangular, flaky stuffed pastry thing without bothering to ask what it was. My tormentor came in from a phone call and sat down next to me with a chocolate muffin.
“Is that a Bedfordshire clanger?”
“Um.” I chewed. “I think so? I didn’t ask, I just pointed at the biggest thing in the case.”
“I haven’t seen one of those in yonks. Brave choice.” He took a bite of his muffin, and his eyelids fluttered closed.
I ate a couple more bites. “What do you mean, brave?”
“Bold choice.” He swallowed. “I didn’t know you were an adventurous eater.”
“It’s just fruit. Apples mostly, I think.” I showed him the inside of it. “I guess some people find fruit adventurous. I have heard that the average diet in your hometown consists mainly of Irn-Bru and deep-fried Mars bars, but I didn’t think it was
true.”
“Well, half of it is fruit. The other half is pig snouts.” He ate another bite of muffin.
I choked a little bit, but tried to hide it. “Shut up. You’re such an idiot.”
“I’m serious.”
“This is stupid. It’s a fruit pastry. If this is meant to be a prank, it’s a really dumb one, even for you.”
“What do you think a clanger is?” He tapped my nose with the tip of his finger. “Half of that pastry is fruit, half of it
is stewed potatoes and pork. Pork snouts to be exact.” He did a little pig snort, grinned, and then took another bite of his
muffin.
“You’re just trying to get back at me for yesterday. I’m not falling for it.” I took another confident bite.
“It’s called a Bedfordshire clanger because it was first made for the Bedfordshire Regiment when they were engaged in the Western Front. The men were starving. Food was scarce, apples were going bad in the fields, so the chef started cooking up a two-course meal—half meat, half fruit—so they could eat while they marched. Pig snouts were all they could get in large quantities on a dwindling budget. People found them tasty. There’s nothing wrong with snouts. You’re going to like it.”
I scoffed. “I know you English people eat some weird and gross food, but you’re going to have to do better than that.”
He narrowed his eyes into blades. “Careful not to choke on those snouts, Cooper.”
“I’m not falling for it.”
“You don’t have to. You’ll find out in another bite or two.”
I took a big showy bite to prove I didn’t believe in his stupid story. There was something strangely salty at the end. I had
probably imagined it because he wouldn’t shut up about snouts. I took another bite, this one experimental. It wasn’t apple.
It was potato. And meat. I gagged. And then I spat my bite out into a napkin. I took a big gulp of my fizzy Appletiser and
tried to wash it away. He laughed.
I snatched his arm in a pincer-tight grip, and he laughed even harder. “Tell me,” I growled.
He laughed so hard that he almost couldn’t respond but managed to gasp out, “Tell you what?”
I pinched harder. “Is it snouts?”
At this, he doubled over the table, laughing so hard that the others started to look.
“Is it snouts!” I shook his arm nearly out of the socket. “I’m going to be sick.”
“No. No! Calm down.” He laughed some more. “It’s not snouts. It’s just regular pork.”
“Ugh! What? I feel sick. What is the matter with you people? Why are pork and potatoes in an apple pastry?”
“Who knows? I don’t know the history. I just made that up.” He took another bite of his delicious-looking, absolutely normal
chocolate muffin. “I mean... I guess it could be snouts.”
I let go of his arm and then took my hand and smashed what was left of his muffin flat against the table. He took a moment from his laughing to shrug and eat another bite of the smashed muffin anyway. When I looked up, I saw Berrta making her way to the table with a sandwich.
“Berrta!” I waved. “I was just getting up. Come sit here. Our charming tour guide was just telling me that he’s been thinking
of doing a new history tour for nudists, but he wasn’t sure if it could work. I’m sure he’d like to hear all about your experiences.”
“Oh, how vonderful, Robbie. Yes, ve have some like that in Germany. I vent for a trip with my pickleball tour just last year.
I vill tell you everything.”
“Do you have any photos? He said he wanted to know how to keep the bus seats clean.” I leaned in and whispered in his ear,
“Enjoy the rest of your lunch.” I stood up, and Berrta shuffled on to the bench next to him. I smiled. Then I threw the rest
of my pastry away. I couldn’t eat it now. What sort of deranged sicko would want that anyway?
As I walked to get another drink to choke down the taste of snouts, I heard Berrta’s voice. “Ah yes, I have some photos on
my phone that I vill show you.” The look on his face was worth a thousand words. I lifted my camera, took a quick shot, and
then gave him a thumbs-up. Berrta got her phone out and started scrolling.
Later, when we got back on the bus, he handed me a little box.
“What’s this? A bomb?”
“An apology. You didn’t get to eat much.”
It was heavy. I opened the box and saw a strange lump of something that looked like cake with spots that might have been raisins.
“What is this?”
“Spotted dick.” He tried to fight the smile off his face, but it was no good. “It’s only a small one, but size shouldn’t matter.”