Doing the Lingo. Badly.

When I first arrived in Belgium, I held a secret contempt for the foreigners who had lived here for so long and had not yet mastered the local language.

I was silently aghast at the fact that – after even 6 months of living here – some could still not even say hello, goodbye, please or thank you in Flemish. In secret, I thought that such as these were rude. Lazy. And pathetic.

And that’s a little bit of pot calling the kettle black, as I discovered recently.

You see, after living in Belgium for close on 4 years now, I’ve discovered a rather remarkable patheticness (a new English word) in my own self. I still cannot speak Flemish fluently.

Understand a Flemish conversation – that I can do. Order a beer – that I can do. Order another – that I can do, even more effectively than the aforementioned.

But try to speak in Flemish in sentences requiring more than 3 words… I struggle. Actually, more than struggle. I become completely unhinged.

Having a Flemish conversation with me is akin to holding the hand of someone learning to rollerblade for the first time. My words, dialect and diction are all over the place.

Yes, I feel as if I have fallen into that realm of patheticism (also a new English word) that is usually reserved for those who don’t know how to turn a computer on, fry an egg or make a cup of tea.

It’s not that I don’t try, you understand. I do try. But when I try speaking Flemish to a local, I experience what I now like to call ‘The Belgian Squint’.

Let me describe it to you: the head of the Squinter is almost always tilted to the left (yours, not theirs), their mouth is ever so slightly open, their left eyelid (again, your left, not theirs – keep up) is completely closed, whilst their remaining eye looks to you as if you have just farted. That is the Belgian Squint. A concomitant mix of shock, horror, disgust and pity.

The language that almost always follows a Belgian Squint is English. So polite, so friendly are the Belgians, that rather than have their language butchered, bastardised or belittled by a roller-blading linguist, they will switch to English to help you on your way.

At the office, we agree that meetings can be conducted in Flemish. But I prefer to respond in English – if only for the sake of time. If I were to respond in Flemish, trying to say “Yes, I would like some more stationery, thank you”, it would take as long as Gaddafi’s recent speech to the UN .

And so I am here. Stuck in my patheticness. But at least I can order beer. With the efficiency and prowess of a true local.

In which I bank.

Have you ever noticed that the word ‘wank’ rhymes with ‘bank’? If you’re into wordology, you’ll find that the derivative Latin ‘wancus’ does indeed refer to participle ‘wancum irritatum’, which is the ancient root form of the word meaning ‘house of storage’(*). Hence it is not unlikely that one would find much wank in a bank.

It is not – you understand – that I expect that any bank is necessarily full of wankers. No. That would be ignorant of me to suggest. What I am saying is that banks are generally full of wanking – not wankers. Well, I suppose if you are wanking, that does indeed make you a wanker, but that line of thought simply doesn’t help my argument at all. Let’s just say – for point of discussion here – that banks are full of wanking.

Why? I’ll tell you.

I lost my bank card about a month ago. An incredibly wankful thing to do, I admit.

I telephoned Card Stop to help me do what their name so generously offers it will.

In no time at all, the ladytron at the end of the line promised my card was indeed stopped and that she would automatically send a new one to my branch.

“Goodbye,” she said.

“I have a branch?” I asked.

Click.

Wank. I have a branch? That’s news to me. I’ve been wanking banking online since before I can remember. I expected that my physical branch was somewhere in alpha beta nine of internet cyberspace.

As it turns out, my branch is located in a completely different dialect district of Antwerp (Melsele). May as well be on another continent if you’re living in a country the size of Belgium.

So I contacted the said branch, and asked if they could deliver my new card to a dialect district that I could understand (anywhere outside of Melsele).

“Of course, not a problem.”

Now that’s customer service for you. Except that it’s not. Its wank. Complete and utter wank.

Because that was one month ago. And millions (*) of phone calls, emails, trips to Melsele (have you ever been there?), cancelled cards, re-issued cards and at least seventeen free mints (which don’t taste like mints at all. Why do they call them ‘mints’, then? Sarcasm?) which lie in a pot on the bank clerk’s desk, later, I still don’t have my card.

Wank. Wank. Wank.

Until today, when the wanking ended.

Or so I thought. I went to collect my new bank card, only to find that the bank had cancelled my credit card. But fear not, for they had immediately re-issued me with a bright and shiny new credit card. With a photo of a lovely baby elephant on it. Cute. But still. Wank.

I tried to express my frustration to the bank clerk.

But, it would seem that ‘wank’ is not an oft-used term in the dialect of that particular branch.

Perhaps I should again ask them to switch branches to a bank that uses the same dialect as I?

(*)Rubbish.

Scarf face

Some onlookers may consider me to be a fashion victim. A title which I feel to be somewhat inaccurate. To be a fashion victim, I assume that you’d have to at least be at the scene of a fashion crime. I’ve been nowhere near anything fashionable, so therefore feel that the title cannot be accurately applied to me.

I’m more of a non-fashion victim.

It’s not that I don’t like, appreciate or admire fashion. Westwood, Galliano and Ford look fantastic on other people. But if I tried any of their clobber on, I look like a badly-decorated Christmas tree. In June.

Which brings me to my story. I was recently given a rather nice scarf. A pink one. Giddy with delight, I was. Thing is, the scarf in question is very similar to the scarves worn by folk in the Middle East.

Wearing it has caused some ripples. On both sides of the fashion fence.

At a recent meeting, one client passed comment; it appeared he was somewhat offended by it. Oh dear.

At another gathering, someone commented that it could be associated with something a terrorist would wear. Oh. So terrorists wear uniforms now do they?

Imagine a conversation at the Terrorist Corporate Branding Committee meeting:

“I’d like to propose a bigger backpack, please. Our bombs look too big in this one.”

“I second that motion. And while we’re at it, let’s do away with combats. They’re so pre-2000’s Madonna. Lycra is just so in this season.”

I checked with one of my Middle Eastern friends, to see what he thought.

“No worries. You’re safe, mate. Scarves like that one are generally blue. Yours is pink. Worst that can happen to you in my region is that you’ll be stoned by an angry mob.”

There was a similar kerfuffle in the States recently, too. I believe it was a Starbucks TV ad which featured a not so unattractive lady sipping a grande mocchio latte with vanilla (or similar). She too was wearing this ‘terrorist’ scarf. Complaints abounded, and the ad was pulled.

Silly? Or serious?

Anyhow. I’ve stopped wearing my scarf for now.

I just hope that Bin Laden isn’t one day eventually captured, and found to be wearing pink underwear. That would cause me a considerable problem.