Carol’s Column

So who needs to speak English these days?

AMAZING! You live in the same house with people for 15, 16 or 17 years and then suddenly — you discover they speak a foreign language.

It’s a culture shock.

I bumped into it at precisely 8am exactly one week ago today.

As I tripped downstairs in my purple candlewick dressing gown and dog-chewed sheepskin slippers en route to the fridge with its tempting array of forbidden foods — I heard strange sounds emanating from the entrance hall.

Peculiar sounds. Not English certainly.

Did we have a foreigner in the house? I couldn’t recollect.

Memory loss is one of the tragedies of middle age — mine was definitely deteriorating.

“Jislike,” said the voice. Then: “Ja, it’s really lank graft.”

Silence, then: “Izzetay?”

Silence, then “Izzetay!”

More silence, then: “Wot a boff — uh huh, uh huh.”

I peered around the door to discover my oldest, unmarried son in his usual position, lying on the floor, the phone stuck to his right eardrum.

Goodness gracious, I thought to myself proudly. I’d never realised what an incredible linguist Barry was.

Of course I knew he had a smattering of English — I mean it is our home language. But here he was, jabbering away fluently in some exotic language.

I was enthralled.

Just then, Barry caught sight of me, winked in that special way that huge, teenage sons do to their mothers when the prospect of food is in the offing, and signed off.

“Check you later, hey, gotta graft. Chow.”

He cast his eyeballs towards me: “Hi, Ma, you look fris today.”

“I do?”

“Ja, lekker like a krekker.”

I smiled, trying not to wrinkle the bags under my eyes.

It’s little compliments like these that makes a mother know all is worthwhile.

He passed me on the way to the fridge.

“Gotta grab a little sustenance to keep the old tubes working,” he grinned cheerily.

“Eat, my child, eat,” I muttered five minutes later as he strolled past with a six-deck sandwich.

“Do you think it’s healthy for your tubes to mix salami, apricot jam, lettuce, cream cheese and onion together?”

“Ma, hang in there, you’ve got to live dangerously. It adds spice to life.”

Such spice I can do without.

At breakfast I looked at my offspring with new eyes. My ears twitched proudly as I listened to them discussing the more important things in life.

“This is lekker graze,” remarked my third youngest unmarried son as he downed his homemade muesli with fat-free yoghurt.

Jaws munched in agreement.

Then ... “Ma, I fancy a boney,” said Barry. Ralph nodded his head in agreement.

The books warn you about this kind of situation. When your little boy is no longer a child, but becomes a man. When he takes an interest in the opposite sex for the first time.

It was just a tragedy that he’d picked an undernourished, skinny girl for his first wild fling.

“Bring her home to meet the family and I’ll give her some chicken soup to fatten her up,” I said happily.

All four young Lazars looked at me as if I was mad.

“Ma, you’re mad. Bring who home?”

“Boney.”

“Boney? A boney’s a bike, a motor bike and all the guys at school have one. In fact everyone needs a boney, Pascual rides a boney, Johnny Meyer bought one last week and David Ryan is trading in his younger brother for a boney.”

“Over my dead body,” I retorted strongly.

“Right, it’s a deal,” said the boys simultaneously.

Which made me think.

The babble continued. “Nicky, shutup, don’t chaf me grief or I’ll bumble your biters.”

But this language business is no joke.

Would you understand a child who says: “Wow, I’m zonked. This graft is a gas.”

Or: “He’s a hose.”

Or the phone rings and my daughter for whom we have mortgaged the house in order that she should have speech lessons and learn to speak the Queen’s English in a dignified and proper manner comes rushing in and announces: “Ralph, there’s a chick on the wire.”

Baddies are paffs, goodies are good ous and izzit means goodness, gracious me, can that possibly be true.

But, if you can’t beat them, join them.

Life’s a gas. It’s just one big jol. In fact, you’ll have to excuse me while I bumble down the drag.

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