Let’s do this together

Bickering with my mate Ali after a long boozy lunch, we climbed into a taxi to take us home. “London Waterloo please,” I told the driver, and we sank into the back seats.

Sensing an opportunity for a new silly squabble to enjoy, Ali quipped, “Of course it’s London – where else would Waterloo be?”

Never one to lose an argument, I replied, “London rather than Spain Waterloo.”

The taxi driver turned his microphone on and joined in. “It’s OK, I sometimes get asked for London Stansted, and it’s not anywhere near London – it’s 40 miles away in Essex!”

I was agreeing with this blatant geographical misappropriation, when Ali had got her phone out and started furiously googling Waterloo.

“Waterloo’s not in Spain. The battle of Waterloo was in Belgium, you twit,” she said, showing me her screen.

“OK, Miss Smarty Pants, wrong battle,” I said. I have to let her win sometimes or I’ll never hear the end of it.

Adding, “I must have been asleep for that bit in history class, but I definitely visited a warry beach in Spain on my way to Gibraltar.”

More furious googling, and she declared, “Trafalgar – it was the battle of Trafalgar.”

The taxi driver tuned in again. “Doesn’t sound very Spanish to me,” he commented.

Reading from her phone, Ali said, “It’s pronounced Traf Algar,” which strangely filled us all with a warm glow of discovery.

“Well, you learn something new every day,” mused the driver, not yet realising that this information was in fact also in lieu of his tip.

When we arrived at the station, we hopped out and I thanked him for taking us to London Waterloo and not Belgium Waterloo.

But the pedantic one was on her phone again, and she added, “That’s Brussels Waterloo, or to be precise, Waterloo in Walloon Brabant.”

Tickled by this particular bit of information, we scuttled off to the train, cackling loudly, stopping briefly to buy small bottles of wine at Marks & Spencer, which we had to swig from the neck during our journey as they didn’t have any paper cups.

Next morning, Ali discovered we’d taken 24 photos of ourselves on the train home, all in various states of inebriation, which she sent over to me with the single caption, “Dear Lord”.

I rang her and said, “We’re a right couple of Walloons,” which set us off maniacally cackling again. It’s fair to say The Dark Lord is not impressed with her mother and godmother’s behaviour.

Email me at siobhan.mcnally@mirror.co.uk or write to Community Corner, PO Box 791, Winchester SO23 3RP.

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