DISLOCATION

Fifteen odd hundred kilometres across five countries and we pull up alongside UK immigration on the Calais side of the Channel. I am tired and my record on this trip of language selection has not been good...German to French speaking Luxembourgois, French to Flemish speaking Belgians, you get the picture. Anyway, I decide to leave the greeting to the young guy in the booth.

He takes our passports.

"Jó napot kivánok."

One.

"...wha...but...hogyan...jézus jó istenem."

"Dint tha know? Oop in Yorkshire, 'Ungarian's t'second language nah."

Two.

"Well, ah'll go to t'foot of our stairs."

I didn't go into any more detail, the third one would have suggested enemy action.

On to French customs where we are stopped by a member of the Gendarmerie.

"Jó napot kivánok."

Only got a bloody Hungarian wife, hasn't he?