Lost in transculturalisation

Thats not a word, is it? It should be shot, if it is.


It was 6.45am, and on the right side of the barriers, the tired flyers were hovering between the departure gates, hoovering up anything resembling breakfast.

Can I have a BLT please? I asked the man with the moustache and the hairnet.

No. No BLT. No sandwich. No sandwich now. He said, helpfully, and pointed up at the board that said nothing about no serving sandwiches at any particular time, but had them cheerfully advertised along with the classic Big American Breakfast items. What you wants?

I looked down at the alien streaky bacon, the four types of sausage, the piles of yellow matter, the other things I cant remember right now, and the three kinds of potato.

Hash browns and sausage said the woman in front of me, forthright and clear.

Ill have what shes having I parroted, pleased for someone else to make a decision.

Choo want egg? The man asked the lady in front of me.

Gaaahd no, she exhaled.

Choo want egg? he asked me.

Nono. No, thanks. No. And actually because I didnt want egg this time, I wasnt just copying, honest. It looked like a little pile of catsick that had been sitting under a food lamp for an hour.

We shuffled along the line.

No eggs, huh? Said my queue companion.

Yep. No eggs I said, which is frankly witty repartee for me at that time of the day.

Yip. Them eggs look funny She said.

Yup I said. Wondering how long it took for the person two people ahead to pay and hurry the fucking line up already.

a pause

I wooden eat those if you paid me. She said, as she paid for her breakfast box.

Mm-hm, youre right there I said, starting to think that if Id only skipped the whole line, and collected enough napkins and condiment sachets from the condiment bar, I could have fashioned some kind of crude sandwich out of them anyway. Possibly with more flavour.

They some baaaaaaad eggs, she said, turning away with her first meal, full of no eggs, away from me (with no eggs) both of us pleased to have masterfully circumnavigated eggs, but both of us with only no eggs in common.

Yes I said. Those eggs? I wouldnt touch them with a shitty stick.

Aaaaaaaaaand the air around me chilled to below the temperature that makes brass monkeys look worried. The cashier reached under the counter, either for a panic button or a gun, it was hard to tell. The lady in front of me, poor hungry traveller, almost dropped her eggless feast. The passengers behind me backed off as if Id had a beard and an accent or something.

A shitty stick? You know? I wouldnt touch them with a shitty stick? Like the phrase?

Apparently thats not a phrase in this country.