Maybe I could get by in America just by speaking English. ‘Hey babe, talk to me. Mine’s a piece of cherry pie and a cup of coffee.’ Ah, but then there’s the language barrier to be considered.
Once upon a time I went America (not the last time, the time before that. I was seventeen.) I went into some kind of eaterie and ordered something with chips. I got French fries. So far so good.
‘Do you have any tomato sauce?’ I asked. (That’s what we called it where I came from.) The young woman looked confused.
‘You mean ketchup?’
She looked concerned – discomfited even – as she handed me a red plastic thing containing tomato sauce.
Can I be a teenager again, please? I promise to do better next time.