I went back to pick up my diary yesterday. I allowed fifteen minutes, but it took 45. I’ve been given reading material now, and been told that I will be moved on to something a little more advanced when I’ve finished it. It’s like being back at school, only without the ever-looming threat of wedgies.
What the visit told me is that after thirty years of living in the United States, even foreigners start to lose their ability to understand when someone is making a joke.
As I walked in, the owner took in my fresh-faced
good looks, and with a twinkle in his eye asked, “What are you going to do when you grow up?” Recognising that he was – and please excuse the American parlance – “busting my chops”, I responded without missing a beat, “I want to be an astronaut.”
Sadly the childlike declaration was lost on my new friend, and he had already started to question me on the logistics of entering the NASA space program
me before I could cut him off. I fear I may have to use all my Photoshop magic later this year to create a picture of me floating in zero gravity, to avoid accusations of lacking ambition in my lifetime’s pursuit.
Anyway, must go – I need to get on with my reading if I’m not to be put in detention.