What eats chest infections?

Like riding a rhinoceros, bareback through Halifax in winter time, or doing Lycra clad lunges at the top of your lungs in the women's lib section of your local Library, telling a Peruvian you think Paddington bear is English, is ill advised.

And I don't even speak Peruvianese.

There is a certain train of thought, just off the main line, down amongst the coal smoke haze that is the sidings and shunting area, that says metaphors are best left to the French.

And love making.

I shall now, not differ from that opinion thus: I agree.

The French, in particular their philosophers, have a knack of phrasing things in such a cunning and pleasing way I sometimes find myself wishing to insert a French phrase or word into the conversation, just because.

Unless of course you are Jean-Paul Sartre and therefore 'up yourself' and use the German word without explaining it.

Recently I found myself in the literary portion of the Labyrinth, or rather the new Literary portion. You see the old 'literary' part of my interminable papier mache hell was the bit that had been crafted out of 3 old take-away menus from pizza shops.

You'd like a Hawaiian pizza, with extra pineapple, a bottle of trademarked pop and some chicken nibblers for your son? Why that's easy, you carry the 4 and have yourself a bill (and tasty yet ultimately unhealthy snack) for 11.77. Unless of course you were shopping at one of the other two shops.

But, if you were shopping at M.ade UPizza Emporium no 2 you'd know that they don't sell chicken nibblers, only turkey gobblers.

Yes.

Back to the topic at hand. As I pushed past the cobwebs and slug trails I found my feet steering me upon new sands, new golden pathways.

I looked about me and saw row upon row of books, shelves stacked high with volumes and volumes, book after book after book. Followed by pamphlets and more books.

My hopes of a brilliant distraction and new found knowledge were hopelessly dashed when I found that all of the tomes were one of two, endlessly copied and duplicated.

The first was Sartre's masterwork and crowning achievement 'Being and Nothingness' which is more long winded than my great-gran on one of her rants about disabled parking spaces - and she lived to 107! All the time complaining about disabled parking spaces!

Look Gran-gran, you can't just leave your dog there and pretend its taken! You don't even own a car! Crazy lady.

The second was The Peruvian Health Service's guide to overcoming Nosebleeds' the deliciously entitled 'La guía de la peruana Salud Serivce a vencer Hemorragias nasales'.

Yes you read that correctly Hemorragias nasales. Hmm, those Spanish words, they sound so sexy!

So, it was great that a few months later, having examined all of the books and finding them to be the exact same work, simply recopied into different covers, I was called by a Peruvian man. Below is a rough translation of our conversation.

'Hello?'

'Hi. My name is Enrique P Eruvian, I am calling for Hector B Razilian. Is he in?'

'Erm, no. I think perhaps you should sit down, madam, as you seem to be a bit pale. Have you been experiencing dizziness?'

'What are you talking about? I am a man. Why should I sit down?'

'I apologise Miss, I now can see it is only a nosebleed. Would you like me to call a doctor, although you may be qualified, saying this may reassure people, or I can see to it myself, if you wish?'

'I think perhaps you are the one who needs help, you are clearly ***************** ****** ** *******************ing insane.'

(At that point we were interrupted by someone trying to fax through, so I missed the bit in the middle).

'Sir I think you may be becoming hysterical through lack of blood, would you like me to shove this up your nose, at this point hold forwards the specially adapted nose blocker.'

(I was then distracted by the wonderance of 'do they have Peru nuts, like they have Brazil nuts?)

'You are a mad mad man and I hope I never meet you. I hope you're Great-gran is a crazy old lady and her dog tries to mount Australians whenever it pleases. Good night!'

Just before he slammed down the phone I knew I had chance for one repartee, one final parting shot, to reclaim some pride and to 'win' the conversation.

'Yeah, well, Paddington Bear is definitely English, so there, Hombre!'