A Frisky Lass

I had been working for the BBC World Service as a news typist for a couple of weeks when, one evening during a quickly grabbed meal of standard Beeb fare, I was asked how I was settling in.  Don, who posed the question was the shift supervisor. A tall, gangly, Donald Sutherland lookalike who ruled the editors' desk in a bored,  laconical manner in between writing pithy plays which were performed in off-Shaftesbury Avenue productions. His cynical remarks could decimate and lacerate in a nanosecond.

Being new and nervous, I sputtered out a reply without thinking. And instantly regretted it.  "Well," I squeaked, in tones akin to Victoria Wood doing her hilarious "University Interview" sketch.  "Most people are nice and friendly, but some of the journalists are downright snotty!".  I felt my face reddening even before I came to the end of my brief outburst. Don leaned back into his chair, which was no mean feat considering his legs alone stretched half way across the canteen, and repeated my last words. He took his time, rolling them around in his mouth, enunciating in his London drawl:  "Down-right snotty - eh?", guttering out the Ts as vowels.

He gazed into the distance, not deigning to regard my squirming form.  Maybe he was being kind, sparing me even more mortification.  "Doooooooowwwwwwwwn-right snotty", he repeated slowly and thoughfully.  It seemed to take about a hundred years before the last "y" floated out across the room and disappeared.

He made no other comment. It wasn't necessary.

After a while, I did settle in and managed to get along with journalists, editors and fellow-typists alike, including Don who even came to one of our tightly packed, crowded parties in Muswell Hill. Actually it was East Finchley, but Muswell Hill was more upmarket and Sara, my flatmate, and I had no qualms about bending the truth when necessary.

Gradually I was able to relax and be comforted by the fact that I was not the only purveyor of odd expressions in this haven of carefully-chosen and endlessly edited words.  I emerged from the lift one day, to be complimented on my new dress by an older journalist.  "My, that's a fetching frock", he commented.  "Fetching frock, fetching frock", I murmered quietly as I made my way to my desk.  Hmmmn!".

My favourite was a warning comment this man made to my friend, Tony, with whom I enjoyed a harmlessly flirty friendship: "She's a frisky lass, and no mistake!". Nothing's changed in that respect, but I have never, ever again accused anyone of being "downright snotty".