Long goodbyes
EVERY weekday morning I spend ten minutes lip-reading. So does the woman standing next to me and the man next to her. None of us have any idea what we're discussing.
This is "Long Goodbye Syndrome," a challenge faced by anyone who has to make extended farewells to loved ones leaving by train or coach or bus.
The school bus pulls up outside my housing block every morning at 8 am. Children climb inside. They press their little sticky faces against the windows (and frequently get stuck to them). Mommy or Daddy wave goodbye. In theory, the bus then heads off to school.
In reality, what happens is this. Child A fails to turn up. Child B realizes he has forgotten to put on his trousers and runs bare-legged home to get them. Child C has overslept and has to be carried to the bus.
Child D has drops her one-meter-high clay sculpture of the decoded genome of a fruit fly and needs to be comforted while someone rebuilds it.
There is always a long wait during which parents on the street and children on the bus stare at each other.
At this point, the kids inevitably remember urgent things they need to discuss. "Wire brackish!" my youngest child mouthed frantically the other day. "Wire brackish arthroscope! Arthroscope!"
I turned to the woman next to me and asked for help: "Did my child just say 'wire brackish arthroscope'?"
She nodded and said: "That's what it looked like." She told me she thought an arthroscope was "a tool for non-invasive knee surgery."
But after staring at my child's moving lips a little longer, light dawned. She said: "Aha! I think she's saying, 'choir practice after school.' But what do you think MY child is saying?"
Her child was jumping up and down in his seat, apparently uttering the words: "Cannabis culture bay delight. Police! Police!"
I watched him repeat his plea for a whole minute before I worked it out. He was saying: "Can Amy come to play tonight? Please, please?"
Some days it's easy to lip-read what they're saying. Other days we just nod and smile. This is dangerous. It has caused me to make numerous promises I cannot keep, including buying her a Lamborghini and taking her to the North Pole. ("You promised!")
Lip-reading has been in the news. BBC TV has been bleeping out the foul language used by celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay. But deaf viewers had been lip-reading the show, and were outraged by Mr. Ramsay's lip-movements. So now the BBC places a big fuzzy spot over his mouth. (If only someone would do this to Mr Ramsay in real life.)
I'd like to propose an easier answer. Everyone should adopt the Italian habit of saying maledizione, which means "bad word." If you step on an Italian's foot, he hops around and says "Bad word! Bad word!" Simple and satisfying.
This morning, there was a big delay and parents and children mouthed conversations to each other for more than ten minutes.
I have no idea what we talked about. Cannabis and non-invasive knee surgery were probably mentioned. I hate to think what I promised, but I just hope it was legal. If not, I will kick myself and say, "Bad word! Bad word!"
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