I am on a New Deal course, enduring the stupefying boredom of a morning with Mike. He is the nasty policeman of the training course, and we know him as “Nosferatu.”
There is a knock on the classroom door and someone hands him a note. He reads it in mounting horror and rushes out of the room.
“Oh, dear,” I say, “I do hope he isn’t suffering from incurable cancer.”
“No, he’s just got flat vowels and a dodgy diphthong,” says Chris the cheerful Mancunian.
“Well, but he did have that hospital appointment the other week,” says ever-hopeful Hester.
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