Read Online George's Grand Tour by Caroline Vermalle - Free Book Online Page A

word.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    Charles wasn’t sure what to make of this. Everyone wrote text messages. Even his friends in the senior citizens’ club did it. They were no sharper than him – quite the opposite in fact – and he found it hard to believe you had to go to the lengths of learning a foreign language (well not strictly foreign, but as good as) just to send a little text message. Then again, if it was true, he was the one who was going to look stupid and all things considered, it was better not to seem daft. ‘You should have told me earlier,’ said Charles. ‘I would have asked my grandson Jonathan, in Niort. He’d know for sure, he spends his whole day sending text messages.’
    â€˜You couldn’t give him a ring, could you?’
    â€˜I don’t think it can really be explained over the phone … I’m sure we can find someone here to show us the ropes.’
    The two men ordered some cider. Wearily, George went on.
    â€˜It could even be that there aren’t any rules. You know how they just make up words these days, and even worse, they do it in Franglais , you know,’ he said, throwing up his hands in despair.
    â€˜It’s not that slang verlan , is it? At least with verlan there are proper rules, and it’s not even that complicated. You just switch the syllables around.’
    â€˜There are rules alright, but it’s not exactly poetry, is it?’ sighed George.
    Charles did likewise for form. Truth be told, he didn’t have much of an opinion on the matter.
    â€˜That’s an interesting point, though,’ said George. ‘Take pig Latin, for example – or louchébem , as we butchers called it. That had rules. And say what you like, it had a kind of poetry as well. I’m not saying it was great art or anything … but at least it had a bit of style, a bit of panache. And it was a good laugh. Sorry, but verlan isn’t half as much fun.’
    â€˜Ah yes, they called it the “butchers’ slang” … My uncle could speak it, but I never really got the hang of it.’
    â€˜Well of course, you weren’t a butcher.’
    â€˜Neither was my uncle. He was a greengrocer.’
    â€˜The thing about pig Latin was that it was democratic, anyone could speak it, all you had to do was learn the rules and it was a piece of cake.’
    â€˜I don’t remember it being as simple as all that.’
    â€˜Oh come on, Charles!’ said George indignantly. ‘It was perfectly simple. Right. Take igpay . As you know, that means pig. All you do is move the p to the end of the word, and tack on the syllable “ay”. And there you go.’
    â€˜OK, I see,’ said Charles. ‘When you put it like that, it sounds easy. So, for example, egg would be … ggeay .’
    â€˜Actually, no, because it’s too difficult to pronounce. For words starting with vowels, you just add “way” to the end. And that’s where the real poetry comes in. You have to judge it by the sound of the word.’
    â€˜Judge it by the sound of the word.’
    â€˜Exactly. It has to flow. So I would say … eggway !’
    â€˜ Eggway ,’ repeated Charles, looking thoughtful. ‘You’re right,you can’t say it isn’t poetic. But I still don’t think it’s “a piece of cake”.’
    â€˜But it is! Of course, you have to get used to it, but anyone can speak pig Latin.’
    George saw the head waiter approaching their table and looked at Charles with a mischievous glint in his eye.
    â€˜OK, now you can speak pig Latin. Yes you can, don’t be shy, you can do it. So, ask the aiterway if we can order some alettegays with eglay of orkpay .’
    He slapped the table and burst out laughing.
    â€˜Stop messing around, George, you know perfectly well the waiter doesn’t have any galettes with leg of pork .’
    That shut George up. He