The Dealer And The Mystery Of The Disappearing Accent!

A few days ago  when I was walking through Canton (a district of Cardiff), I saw a guy wearing the baggiest trousers I had ever seen; the kind that suggested the presence of legs but failed to deliver any real evidence of their existence. Baggier even than the baggiest of 70's Oxford Bags.

He also wore a camouflage jacket of the kind that British paratroopers used to wear many moons ago.  As he came closer he performed a little jig in an attempt to sidestep an old granny with one of those annoying little shopping bags on wheels.

He failed spectacularly and sprawled headlong onto the pavement in front of me.

I helped him up.

What can I say? It's what I do. I'm a helper!

"You ok?" I asked.

"Yeah man!" came a booming, Jamaican reply.

Once on his feet, he thanked me and made off at speed taking with him a brand new limp.

Later ... maybe 30 minutes or so ... I entered a small cafe to have a coffee whilst pondering 9. Down of my crossword - Cannot be fixed. (11).

Just as I entered the cafe my new and still limping friend arrived.

"Hello again, my friend" he said. "Let me buy you a coffee, for helping me earlier".

I couldn't help noticing his Jamaican accent had somewhat slipped.

"Oh! Thanks" I managed.

His accent reappeared as he ordered "Sausage, chips and beans for me an a coffee f'me fren'".

A large roll of banknotes appeared in his hand and he unfurled a twenty pound note. After paying and receiving his change, the roll of notes disappeared back into the baggy pocket of his baggy trousers.

We sat at a table and minutes later coffee arrived.

Just then my new friend, who had identified himself as Lionel, looked across the cafe and saw two guys (who were probably Somalians - there are a fair few around here) getting up from their table and heading to the door.

"Black bastards!" he hissed.

As Lionel himself is of Afro-Caribbean origin, his statement surprised me.

He grinned, showing me in the process teeth that, had we been in sunlight, would have dazzled passing motorists. "Not talking 'bout their skin, man. Them's bad to the heart!".

Lionel's accent was back and thicker than ever.

I watched the Somali's leave the cafe.

"Yeah, man! Them's selling da 'ard stuff. Dope! I sell's weed. Ya wan' some?"

I declined.

His accent departed once more as he said "Just as well. I'd have to arrest you!"

I finished my coffee.

"Only jokin' man" he said with a grin as I thanked him for the coffee and took my leave.

As I walked back to my car the answer to 9.Down came to me; Irreparable.

That's when I realised that the newspaper that I hadn't yet read, still lay on the table.