I'm Sorry?

I was walking, weaving, ducking, diving my way down Oxford Street on a crowded busy Wednesday afternoon last summer when I was suddenly confronted by
this tiny woman with spiky blue hair. I don’t mean it was a ‘blue rinse’ or that it had been gelled in a slightly upward style. I mean that it was an outrageous bright electric blue and had been carefully formed into about fifty cones all pointing outwards as if she was trying to imitate Sonic or something.

She was clearly trying to ask a question and hadn’t noticed I had my cans on. So I popped out my ear-candies. “I’m sorry?” I said.

“c?ny?d?r?ctm?t?th?r??lw?yst?t?n?” she said.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t quite catch that”. Not quite; I hadn’t caught any of it.


Oh no, here comes the third one. “Pardon?”


“Can you drive me really insane?!”. Probably. Can’t have been what she said. Can it?

“Can you direct me to the railway station?”

“Oh… I’m so sorry it took me so long to get it.”

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