ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact

“Hey Christian,” bellowed Christan’s oldest mate from the office, Dave.

“Come over here and speak some of your fucking parseltongue to these blokes. What’s that thing you say?”

Christian had to interrupt a conversation he was having with another coworker and come over to Dave Gregson, who was now swaying in the cool desert air like a lively brigalow tree.

Along with young Dave stood two other colleagues that Christian vaguely knew and honestly didn’t care for much – but he wasn’t about to let them down.

He cleared his throat.

“Suge din egen pik!” he whispered.

Dave laughed alone with the two others smiled and nodded in agreement.

“Did you fucking hear that?” laughed Dave.

“What the fuck was that?! It sounds like he’s burnt his tongue!”

The other two men standing beside him smiled intensely.

One of them broke ranks and asked:

“What language is that?”

Chrisitan looked down at a now doubled-over Dave then back up at the faceless coworker next to him.

“It’s Danish.”

Suddenly Dave collapsed onto the floor in utter hysterical laughter.

“Just like the fucking pastry!”

Everybody in the room had since turned toward them to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh, Christian must be speaking his pig latin again,” said one accountant devoid of a personality.

“Yes,” said another.

More to come.


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