I lost my voice in a Parisian hotel
room.
I
put it in a tape recorder, sealed in by the stop button. I played it back only
once. It sounded all squeaky so I hid it in a cupboard.
The
following morning I packed in silence, checked out and ran for the airport. I
was midway over the Channel when I noticed what was missing.
It
was an old tape recorder so I don't miss it. However when the stewardess came
over to offer me a beverage, I couldn't speak. I couldn't even squeak.
Fortunately I knew a few basic signs and she knew them too. I ordered a glass
of lemonade.
I
could speak again when we landed though every word sounded unnecessarily
French. People thought I was a snob. I am a snob but not in a particularly
Parisian way.
I
told a taxi driver allons-y and went
home. I thought long and hard about my little bit of voice still in Paris,
imagined the turn down service baffled and the concierge only mildly amused.
What a trinket; except for the accent, not at all Anglais.
And
yet I can't remember this very simple sentence. For the life in me, I can't
recall what it was I said.
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