A failure to communicate

I remember someone telling me about his year in Australia. He was on a bus when a guy said to him, as best as he could render it, as “tie-may”. He would have had no clue what the guy meant except that at the same time he pointed to his wrist, as in, “what time is it?”. The guy was saying “time, mate?”. In the Guardian, Ariane Sherine explains the downside of refusing to show someone her warts.

Four years later, I was playing piano in hotels part-time, and it was obligatory to ask the mostly-not-listening clientele: “Any requests?” This was often a mistake, as the most common request was usually “Can you stop playing?”, along with other assorted jibes.

On the occasion in question, a man at the back yelled out: “Can I see warts?”

Deciding to ignore the strange insult, I repeated: “Any song requests?”

“Can I see warts!” the man shouted again indignantly.

“No, you can’t,” I replied, and launched back into playing, shooting him a withering look.

I was pleased at how smoothly I had dealt with the situation. I maintained this sense of pride until the manager stormed over and asked why I had refused to play Tennessee Waltz for the man at the back.