The other day there were four of us sitting on the sidewalk patio at The King’s Head, sipping fine brew and munching on pub fare. The four of us have taken to gathering in this context on alternate Tuesdays to talk marketing, advertising, general media, and corporate whatnot, testing assumptions as we go. Or talking peak oil, whatever. This fact helps makes sense of the part where we look at each other’s meals, pointed, and said, “I’m getting that next time…”
So in any event, we’re chatting away and so forth, covering the particular ground we either enjoy or love to hate — either one works just fine for us, thank-you. Eventually I interrupt and direct a comment to one of my companions. “The horse was duly flogged,” says I, referring to our conversation of two weeks past, “and the necropsy showed that some of the wounds were post-mortem.”
See, the thing about it is, you just don’t get to work the word “necropsy” into everyday conversation that often… like normally, never — so I’m still feeling proud and perhaps a bit smug about the whole thing. The fellow I deadpanned the comment toward just laughed, and took my point good-naturedly. Too fun.
Or maybe you had to be there.
Four weeks ago two of these guys stopped me mid-sentence to pronounce, “ooh, good word!” when I said “moreover” in conversation. I think I’m quite convinced that more people should use the word “moreover” in conversation. It’s okay, one of them has roughly the conversational vocabulary of Rex Murphy, so I’m routinely outdone.
Speaking of having to be there, we discovered yesterday evening that nothing brings all the neighbours out onto their driveways on a quiet cul-de-sac quite like a burning vehicle across the street with a fire engine and a whole crew of firefighters in attendance. Perhaps we’ll get more details tomorrow evening when I take my wife out for the evening. The family of our kids’ regular babysitter from across the street happen to have owned charred spectacle, which later departed behind a towtruck under cover of night.