Lost in Translation

In this day and age it seems difficult for the generations of the now to contemplate, the mores of any previous generation. Often lessons are passed down, but some of the amusement in the confusion, is often missed in the translation.

Such is the innocence of age and the naivety of my own mother when faced with daily life.

Les was the town fruiterer. Of course his name wasn’t Les. His father was born in mainland China, before the century could spawn communists.Les had been so named because as he saw it and it soon became apparent. He sold for less. That being his work motto and ethic seemed enough for him to embrace it. His children attended the local primary school, in store bought fashions and assimilation was assumed.
His coy wife was seen with other matrons of the town being outfitted by the town couturier.
The town couturier, requires his very own notes, but suffices to say the symbol of one
Tailored item was a matron’s calling card. To which one expect spring invitations, and late summer inclusions at local events and weddings.
Les and other main street businessmen were known to extol the joys of Chinese whisky. Such forbidden delight. Toasting good luck and a finish to a business week, amongst island banana boxes and headed lettuce seemed common practice. This town had the virtues of prohibition, and a wry eye at its policing. Often an older relative lay prostrate in an anteroom with an elongated pipe and a wooden block for comfort, but this as some many things was a hangover from a time gone passed.
Because of his entrepreneurial skills, the kiwi know how of his late night business companions considered, Les began home deliveries in a modest van. Loaded it up it resembled something more akin to a banana republic.
It also a point of sale for other and sometime personal items. These items, of course in a modern world, can be grabbed from a supermarket shelf. In the day, one practiced several versions of coitus interuptus, embarrassed oneself at the chemist or had the barber slip it to you in the sports pages after a weekly haircut. Any business selling the top shelf became of local legend, as was the fruiterer of the day.
Interestingly enough, he, a generation’s assimilation, had yet to drop the almost comic patois of a second language. Despite best efforts and good intentions this often led
To occasional moments of sheer farce.

My mother ,heavily pregnant and standing at the curbside had a mid winter craving. Lettuce Salad. To expect a lettuce in weather best accompanied by soup, was an unusual enough request. But my mother had been rest assured by many of her neighbours over the clothes line that Les could be relied on for fresh lettuce what ever the season

Braving a chill, that was reported to be straight off the mountain and the remnants of an early morning fog; she waited for the familiar sight round the corner.

Ten.am.Right on time, she thought.
The Van swung into the side of the country road, its occupant all smiles.
Always ready to install his customers with joy and often with tales of his last stop
Les was strangely silent as my mother made her request for one of his special items
His special fresh lettuce.
The eyes twinkled in the fruiterers mind as his smile broadened.

Ah Mrs. Shirl.You asks for my special fresh lettuce. Usually it is the men who are asking for my fresh lettuce before; the horse is out of the stable.

Looking to my mother’s extended stomach his humorous intention was made clear.
Gales of laughter and cheeks of embarrassed delight sprang between the housewife and her green grocer.

A lesson missed in translation.

That a condom is French
And while a Trojan is a metaphor for a horse.
The French letter is now a supermarket object and not at the discretion
of lessons messed in translation.