He winked at me, and said in his most debonair manner, “would you pour the tea?” I looked at him coyly from under my eye-lashes, smiled slightly and said in my best Marlene Dietrich whisper “No Errol, and take care of that tic”. The man looked like a lopsided goblin; no doubt Errol Flynn turned in his grave being compared to him. I was of course the only woman in the room, and the fact that I outranked at least 90% of the men there that day did not absolve me of my true responsibility and calling, bearer of children and pourer of tea. In my head I could picture myself on the boardroom table belting out a version of “I am what I am and what I am needs no excuses”, while I ripped off the goblin’s head and fed it to the red-eyed hounds. On the outside I remained composed, listening intently.
Wimpy bar, three men and a woman, blah blah blah, more blah blah blah. “Yes, but I..” blah blah “I don’t..” blah blah, “Would it not be ..” I tried a couple of times to get a word in but it seemed to me that the pitch of my voice was a genuine barrier. So I leapt to my feet and with great force I said, “JUST DASHING TO THE CAR TO FETCH MY STRAP-ON-PENIS” blah bla bl “SO YOu can hear me better”. Silence. I had the floor finally.
Forty people in a room, I am the only one who cannot speak in the vernacular. The meeting decision is no translation. I silently beseech my colleague to insist on translation. He folds, like a deck of cheap cards. I watched as he gave away the crown jewels. I had to devise a ploy to win back some ground. So having understood nothing of what was said, I commandeered the floor and began to speak in my best Greek for some twenty minutes. I shared with the room my best childhood memories, my dreams and aspirations and then sat down. The chair had barely started to call me to order when I started again with great fervour for another five minutes and then sat down. And so it went. Finally we broke for tea. One of the meeting participants approached me and said, “Excellent Portuguese!” “Why thank you, kind Sir!”