BROKEN ENGLISH - One Day as a Tiger - page 166

was one of the great milestones in the progression of lightweight climbing in the
Himalaya.
Not long before he left for Dhaulagiri, Maria Coffey remembered Alex sitting on
the stairs shouting down the phone at Voytek, speaking English but in a Polish ac-
cent. 'He said it was the only way Voytek could understand him.' Marianne Faith-
full's Broken English was one of our anthems for several years after it came out in
1979. We shared it on our single cassette player on the way into Annapurna in
1982. It was the title of Alex's account of his climb, a classic piece from Mountain
magazine.
Broken English
'Going anywhere this summer?' enquired the brick-edge cruiser. A question well put.
The whimpering white chalk haze, which might just conceivably have been going
somewhere this time, hit the deck again.
'Dhaulagiri,' said I.
'Where's that?' asked the youth, now revolving effortlessly around a fingernail be-
fore poising, purring.
Again, a good question. In Nepal, judging by the postmark on the card. At least it
had been when I first met it courtesy of the Reprint Society's rendering of Herzog's
classic Annapurna , via my mum's bookshelf.
'Near Annapurna.'
The instant look of non-recognition spoke for itself. I qualified the statement,
broadened the base.
'In the Himalaya.'
The lad switched into a perfect crucifix from opposing finger locks. Orgasmic eyes
eyed bulging muscles. A neat one-arm pull-up landed him on the balcony. He looked
down with disdain.
'Near Bolton is it?' he said, heading for the weights.
The curt 'Good afternoon!' from The Lady on my right, a statement of fact in re-
sponse to my cheerful 'Good morning!' might have melted a more sensitive man . [1]
Eyes front, but no relief here: the wall-to-wall grin of our recently appointed access
officer being unfortunately indicative of a pre-10 a.m. presence. Behind this newly
resident Cheshire Cat, splendidly isolated from its surrounds by an iron curtain of
garbage and mouldy coffee cups, a fairly exact parody of my bedroom, in fact, lay my
realm, that of the national officer. A recently installed telephone proclaiming to all
the world the importance of this post, second only to The Menace who has two
phones and even dares to ask the Lady to take dictation. A Yorkshire hum from the
inner tabernacle suggested The Menace was in residence and another crisis would
soon be unfolding about our heads. As the Sports Council is usually backing the oth-