101 YEARS OLD AND STILL ALPHABETICALLY AWKWARD...

IREALLY must learn the phonetic alphabet. I had occasion the other evening to telephone my elder offspring Junior Beachcomber who happened to be sojourning at a London hotel and I found myself speaking to a receptionist with a southern European accent but she spoke the Alpha-BravoCharlie phonetic alphabet perfectly, which exposed my inadequacies.

“I should like to speak to Junior Beachcomber who is staying at your hotel,” I said.

“Could you spell the surname?” she asked.

“I could, I can and I shall,” I replied. “B, E, A,…” “The first letter is P,” she asserted. “No,” I said; “it is B for Bradypus.” “P for Platypus,” she said. “Not platypus,” I said. “Bradypus. Then I added, to avoid any further mistake, “a three-toed sloth.” “Platypus,” she said. “P for Papa.” “I am his papa,” I said, “but our surname is Beachcomber, with a B. B for buzz, like a bee.” “Bravo,” she said. “Thank you. May we go on?” I said. “I am not congratulating you,” she pointed out. “I said ‘Bravo’ because it is B for Bravo. Do continue.” “I see,” I said. “That’s B-I-C as in cheap ball-point pen,” she said.

“No, no, no,” I said, “or to be more accurate, yes, no, no. Yes to the B, no to the I-C. I said ‘I see,’ meaning ‘I comprehend’. I wasn’t continuing the spelling of the name. After the B comes E for Euphemism.” “B-U,” she said. “No!” I said. B-E. E for extraneous.” “Bravo, X-ray,” she said. “If I had wanted an X, I’d have said ‘Xanthippe’,” I pointed out, struggling to maintain my composure.

“Xanthippe?” she queried. “Could you spell that?”

“X-A-N,” I began, then thought that spelling it was not going to be helpful. “Look, she was Socrates’ wife. A bit of a harridan by all accounts. But that is neither here nor there. Let’s get back to spelling Beachcomber, shall we?” “By all means,” she agreed. “B for birds and bees, E for echidna or elephant, A for Aesop,” I said. “That’s Bravo, Echo, Echo,” she said. “No! It’s Bravo, Echo, Alpha,” I said. Aesop was a Greek chap who wrote fairy stories, and his name is spelt with an A. A for Axolotl or Aye-Aye.”

“Bravo, Echo, Alpha,” she repeated. “Do continue.”

“C,” I said. That’s the letter C, not the deep blue sea or the visual verb see. C for Choloepus.” “Choloepus?” she queried. “Choloepus,” I confirmed. “The twotoed sloth. Unlike the Bradypus, which has three toes or fingers on its front feet. They both have three toes on their hind legs, of course, but their front legs differ by one digit.”

“Is that Choloepus with a C for Charlie or a K for Kilo?” she asked. “C for Charlie,” I confirmed. “Hang on a sec,” she said, “B-E-A-C, is that Beachcomber of the Express?” “It is indeed,” I said. “Well why didn’t you say so at the start?” she asked. “Please hold. Putting you through.”