Fitting out, Sailors, Tea Ladies and Euphamisms

A Bank holiday weekend, in gorgeous Fowey, was full of surprises. We arrived expecting rain but were met with blue skies and sunshine. It may not have been the weather for lazing on the beach but it was pleasant and warm in sheltered parts.

We had arrived towards evening and my husband had booked a meal at the local sailing club for our party of three. He had also issued an invitation to a friend who was delighted to accept. Thus, we wandered down at the appointed time. Our friend, who lives in Fowey, was already there.

“Did you know it was a Fitting Out dinner?” she asked us with a wicked smile.

“A fitting out dinner?” we repeated, innocently, “What is that?”

“Oh no, you mean you didn’t know?”

We frowned, a little nervous now and shook our heads.

“Today is the day that everyone has finished fitting out their boats for the Summer and this is a celebration,” she informed us triumphantly.

Her tone suggested we should be concerned. Was there to be a quiz? Was there some secret handshake involved? It all looked fairly normal to us. A group of hardened drinkers lounged by the bar, trestle tables lined the walls, each with places laid.

“Is this a formal dinner?” I hissed to my husband.

“Well, it did say a set meal,” he offered.

I glanced at the third member of our party, she shrugged, knowing no more than I. We didn’t own so much as a dinghy between us and the only thing we had fitted out recently, was a kitchen. We are more social members of the sailing club I suppose one could say.

Oh well, we decided, we’d wing it.

Our Fowey friend, whom I shall refer to as Elle, was grinning merrily, enjoying the situation.

“You’ll be fine,” she told us,

We sat down at a table that was already occupied by three of our fellow guests. Polite conversation ensued.

Our fellow guests were retired and had been working on their boat all day it seemed but, having cast aside work trousers and boat shoes, now donned full evening wear. We had been told that they were retired Historians (can historians ever truly retire? Isn’t that a bit like saying a story-teller retires?) They certainly knew their stuff and their stories were a delight to hear.

Among the interesting facts tossed our way, we learnt that Fowey had once been home to quite a few tea ladies. Apparently, these tea ladies would wait for a ship to come in and then go down to the harbour to greet the sailors. How kind, you may think, those poor, thirsty, sailors just dying for a cup of ‘Rosie Lee’. I fear this was not the case. Apparently, the ‘tea ladies’ provided a service and offered one price for a single sailor and another for the entire ship. (That’s a lot of tea!)

Midway through the dinner, someone clapped their hands and asked for silence. He introduced someone else and sat down. A second person stood up to rapturous applause and said something that I couldn’t quite catch. This drew another round of applause and the person sat down. That, we decided, must have been the official Fitting Out Speech. If so, it was the shortest speech in history.

We turned back to our guests to continue our fascinating foray into the history of Fowey.

Having established that the title, Tea Lady, was a euphemism, we remembered hearing that our own house, in times gone by, had been listed as a Tea House. We had always thought that to mean it was used to store the tea brought in from the ships. Have we been labouring under a misapprehension?

I wont be inviting any sailors home, just in case…

 

The Value of Turnips

A friend of mine came back from a London seminar this week, with some startling facts and figures.

Apparently, the UK was happy to borrow and borrow in the years leading up to the recession, racking up debts to the tune of 1.5 trillion pounds in 2009.

Dennis Turner, Chief Economist for HSBC, told his audience that the real issue was the spending and borrowing before the recession. Well, yes, this would make sense. If we’d not borrowed, we wouldn’t owe would we?

It would seem we are good to lend to as we pay back our debts and are deemed to be a ‘safe’ country. We don’t riot – much, we queue, we are patient, we take our medicine like the stoic race we are.

Meanwhile, according to Mr Turner, The Government spends 720 billion a year, of which, 250 billion goes on benefits and 95 billion on pensions.

My friend’s notes did not say anything about banker’s bonuses or the outrageous amounts paid to footballers, but it does make one think.

Finally, Mr. Turner was keen to let us know that the economy is healing, growth is forecast and by the end of 2014, we should be back on track. It continues to be challenging but we are over the worst, according to him.

Well, that’s good to know isn’t it? There is, at last, a light at the end of the tunnel. When I read my friend’s notes, it set me wondering though—what does 1.5 or indeed 1 Trillion pounds, mean to Joe Bloggs in the street? Where did this ridiculous preoccupation with money come from?

Well, we all know that money was only meant to replace donkeys and turnips wasn’t it? A donkey doesn’t fit into the wallet easily and neither does a turnip come to that. Gold was much easier to transport and when that became too heavy, with inflation, then a paper currency equivalent was introduced.

Picture then, young *Abi-eshu of the “wheel’ fame as he bartered with his four turnips for a flagon of local ale. Could he have ever envisaged a trillion turnips? He certainly would have needed a big cart to carry them. More to the point, would we have ever been so stupid as to borrow a trillion turnips? I think not. Our cupboards simply would not hold them.

The whole issue of money has become too easy. We can carry a wallet full of notes or rely on a card with which we can pay thousands of pounds at a time if we wish. We don’t see money as the simple bartering tool it was meant to be, these days.

Abi-eshu, however, had no such issues to worry him. The first coins may have been pressed but Abi, in his backwater, relied purely on barter. So, the day his father sent him out to procure a new milk cow, he threw a sack of turnips into the cart and trundled off into town. The market was busy and the cows were hot and smelly. Abi-eshu parked his cart, complete with its new wheels, and wandered over to the cow pen.

“I would like to buy one milk cow, please,” he told the farmer. The farmer looked him up and down disparagingly,

“What are you paying with boy?” he asked.

“I have a sackful of turnips,” replied Abi, standing tall.

The farmer laughed.

“Just one sackful? – do you hear that everyone? The boy has a sackful of turnips and wants to purchase a milk cow,”

“Abi waited politely as the men laughed at him,”

At length, the farmer stopped laughing and looked him in the eye,

“So, the cheapest milk cow I have, is worth at least three sackfuls of turnips,” he said.

Abi frowned. He had only one sackful – where could he get two more?

“Come back when you have enough,” the farmer advised.

Abi knew he must not go home without the milk cow. What could he do?

Bowing politely to the farmer, he went back to his cart and drew out two empty sacks. He tipped out the sack of turnips and divided their number into three. He then placed a third of the turnips in each sack and tied the tops.

“Excuse me, Sir,” Abi said respectfully,

The farmer turned in surprise at his quick return,

“Yes boy? What now?” he asked.

Abi indicated his cart.

“I now have three bags of turnips, Sir,” he said.

The farmer looked across at the cart and frowned. Indeed, the boy did have three bags of turnips in his cart.

“Did you borrow the rest?” he asked suspiciously, for he did not believe in borrowing, it only led to bad feeling amongst neighbours.

“No, sir, I found I had three sacks in my cart after all,” Abi said, truthfully.

The farmer led out a beautiful brown and white milk cow and tied it to the cart. Abi hauled down the three sacks of turnips and handed them over.

“Father,” called Abi, as he drew within sight of his father’s house, “See the fine cow I have bought with my three sacks of turnips!”

Abi-eshu’s father emerged from the house and cried out in delight when he saw the beautiful cow his son had purchased.

“But Abi, you had only one sack of turnips this morning he said with a frown, “Did you borrow more?”

Abi-eshu smiled and explained,

“No father, I re-distributed my wealth just as you have taught me and one sack was divided into three. I didn’t need to borrow even one turnip!”

Abi-eshu’s father was very proud of his son and many years later when Abi-eshu was an old man, he recounted the tale to his grandchildren.

“Never borrow, just look at what you have and re-distribute it,” he told them.

Alas, Abi’s advice was lost in the mists of time and turnips were replaced by gold coins. Governments borrowed vast sums of money and would continue to sink vast sums into bottomless pits before they ever thought of redistributing what they already had.

Abi-eshu knew the value of turnips. Do we?

*Abi-eshu probably lived in Ancient Mesopotamia, circa 3500BC

 

Losing the plot

I have been writing a synopsis of my latest novel. This exercise, undertaken only once the novel had reached a stalemate, has been strategically planned to enable me to see what the heck is going on.

This novel was started under the banner of NaNoWriMNo. It grew to well over 50,000 words in 30 days. It spoke, it breathed, it fairly flew off my fingers and onto the screen as I typed. It made sense, well, no, actually it didn’t make all that much sense but it had lots of hooks and notes in the margins and helpful inserts/guides for me to follow when, released from the pressure of that daily word count, I was free to take it up and cajole it into shape.

I enjoyed writing it, it must be said.  On November 1st (my birthday) I sat down and pulled the germ of an idea from my brain. I began to write. The experience was amazing. Family left me alone, my mind conjured up characters and I only had to watch as they led me into their lives. I knew them so well but they still surprised me. I had to remember that there was some work still required from me.

Funny how one can be so enthused over a piece and then find oneself lost in a sea of self-doubt. I began to wonder if I should start again. I liked so much of what I had written but where was it taking me? I was seriously considering scrapping it and concentrating on my other works in progress (oh yes, there are a few) but I was loathe to give up so, I put it aside for a few weeks.

I wrote a short story, sent that off to a magazine (am still awaiting sale or rejection). I wrote a few blog posts, walked the dogs, had mother-in-law to stay for a fortnight, youngest daughter and children for a week. I caught a virus, laid low for a while and then, today, I decided to tackle this festering pile of words that niggle away at me, once and for all.

As always, I began to read through, I checked my notes…then I stopped. Like a bolt from the blue, it came to me what this novel lacks – a synopsis.

I have never been one to plan before I write really (ask my English teacher should she still be around) but I do normally plan and edit as I go, to some extent. The NaNoWriMo experience had not allowed me to do this (notes in margins may work for some but not for me). It was suddenly obvious to me what I had to do – write a synopsis. I was not concerned with how I wrote it other than that it should describe the plot, its characters and the order of events. I kept a copy of the incomplete novel by my side (on screen) as I wrote and gradually, pulled together the gaping holes that I noticed in the plot. Why did that character do that? Does it impact on the plot in any way at all? Can I lose him/her with no detriment to the story? Several characters fell by the wayside as I considered their merit.

The experience encountered by one Hollie Robinson http://goo.gl/aMbYs from the Huffington Post (I googled this – great article) rang true. There were gaping holes in my sub story and a good few in the main plot too. My characters were full of life but they seemed to be running round in circles that never quite met up. As I read, I could see where my mind had been heading at the time but it was also clear that I had never actually arrived.

Oh dear.

Yet, all is not lost. This synopsis, as it takes shape, promises to show me the way. I am empowered by the ability to rewrite history. I had better get back to it lest it take over and become the beginnings of a second novel itself.

I will let you know if this novel ever makes it out of its box but armed with my new knowledge, I think it stands a fighting chance.

 

Impressing the boys

Flossie here.

Hello!

It’s been an exciting couple of weeks. First, little Doris (now not quite so little) came to stay for the night. Doris and I are still best pals and although she can’t run as fast as me, or corner very well, we get along like a house on fire.

Alas, Doris was only here for the night. Last month, she stayed for a week and I quite thought she had moved in. Doris does get special privileges when she is here. Apparently, she is so well behaved on the lead that the little human, William, can take her for a walk! There is a video to prove it, if only the Boss could embed it here. A screenshot will have to suffice.

William (aged 21/2 yrs) and Doris the English Bulldog out for a walk

William and Doris at the swings

The Boss declared that there is no way I would be as well-behaved as Doris (I thought this a little unfair at first but on reflection, as I careered past a group of children, standing on the bank of the stream in the woods the other day, I did concede that maybe she has a point).

A few days ago we had another visitor. Theo came to stay! Theo hasn’t been to stay for ages, not since I was quite a young pup. The last time he was here I recall Keano getting a little grumpy with him but this time, Ol’ Keans seemed more relaxed. The Boss thinks this may be because, 1) both dogs are older and 2) Theo has been ‘done’. I do not know what this means but it sounds pretty final.

What is that yellow dog doing?

I was very excited to see an extremely large, Old English Sheepdog arrive, I can tell you. I imagined lots of fun and frolics in the garden and prepared my well rehearsed welcome. I wagged my tail until I thought it might drop off and spun in circles. Theo just stared at me. Never mind, I would wait until he was settled and then invite him for a game.

Theo did the usual thing of sniffing round everywhere to re-acquaint himself with the layout of the house. This done, he found a cool spot on the floor and lay down. Well, you’d think I’d have more effect on him than that.

Not one to give up, I bided my time until he had eaten, been outside and had settled in for the evening with the Boss and the family. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He lay there for some considerable time. Surely he’d want to play in a minute?

Want to play?

Aha! Suddenly, my luck was in or so I thought. Theo began rolling around on the carpet and grunting as he twisted and turned on his back. I was ready. I scampered up to him—he ignored me.

I turned in circles—he ignored me.

Watch me spin round!

I made a few playful lunges—he ignored me. What was a girl to do to get this fellow’s attention? I did what every girl dog would do. I put my head down and my rump up in the air and did that swivel thing on my neck. I was pushed up against the sofa as I made this manoeuver. Thus, the Boss clicked her camera and there I was, doing my best to make Theo look at me, upside down and, now I come to think of it, looking slightly ridiculous.

Don’t you think this is cool?

The world looks different when one is upside down but there was no mistaking what happened next. Theo, stood up and casually walked away, leaving me hanging.

Where’s he gone?

It turned out that Theo was only with us for a short while. The Boss has now taken him to his forever-home in Essex where he will live with the Boss’s sister in her new house. I would have given him one more chance to enjoy a game with me but I’m afraid, in the end, I had to give up.

What did I do wrong?

 

Your child is cute but there is no need to tell me…

There is often much said in the media about those pushy mothers who will stop at nothing to see their little darling shine on screen or stage which immediately makes me think of Noel Coward’s lyrics, “Don’t put your daughter on the stage Mrs Worthington.” Of course, pushy mothers are in no way restricted to the performing arts. They appear in every walk of life and will often stop at nothing to further their children’s careers and prospects.

Just where pride and support stops and pushiness creeps in is a moot point.

Pushy mothers are one thing. They may be caricatured and held up to ridicule but many a child has benefited I am sure, from the wiles and dedication of a pushy mother. Personally, I can stand any amount of pushy mothers as long as they stay clear of me. However, I am less tolerant of the kind I met in the Doctor’s surgery waiting room last week. This is the, “Just look at how cute my child is!” kind.

First, let me say that when in a Doctor’s waiting room, if one is unaccompanied, it should be assumed that one is not feeling well. There will be exceptions to the rule of course but on the whole, one wants to be left to wait in peace.

Last week, I had cause to visit the doctor. I was feeling less than well – nothing a course of antibiotics couldn’t put right but still, I just wanted to sit in peace and wait. Hence, having booked myself in on the handy touch-screen (a self-service feature worth mentioning should it be successful and does not result in you joining the queue at the reception desk to be booked in manually because the computer, inexplicably, says “no”) I chose a row of seats as far away from anyone else in the waiting room as I could. The room was not particularly full so there was a good choice.

After a few minutes, a young woman came in with her little daughter. The little girl was about 3 years old. The young woman approached the touch screen and successfully booked in. I was aware she was making a big deal of removing the child’s coat. Her voice carried across the waiting room,

“Let’s take your coat off Kaylee, that’s it – you don’t need it on in here do you? Oh look at you! You are funny. Come on let’s sit down, where do you want to sit?”

I tried to look inconspicuous in my seat at the far end of the room. There were plenty of seats in the section to my left where the toys were. Mothers and babies tend to congregate there. The little girl gleefully ran towards me. Oh dear, she was going to sit next to me. She launched herself onto the chair and onto my handbag which was, it should be said, resting half on the other chair.

“Kaylee! You mustn’t go jumping on people like that. I am sorry,” the young woman apologised, loudly. I smiled and moved my bag.

“Don’t worry,” I said sweetly.

I should have known she’d choose to sit next to me, they all do – do I give off a signal that says, “Mother of five, with grandchildren – good target”? Probably.

The child was quite sweet of course, and fairly quiet. Not so her mother. The mother didn’t chat to the child exactly, she chatted to the entire room. Know what I mean? If the child did something, then the mother would say loudly and rather annoyingly,”Oh Kaylee, you are funny, you’ve done this/that/the other,”

I just sensed it would get worse. I contemplated moving but that would be rude and require using up my sadly depleted supply of energy. I felt quite drained. I would just have to sit there.

No sooner had I had this thought than the father arrived. As mother and daughter had taken up both the seats to my right, he squatted on the floor next to them.

“Would you like to sit here?” I offered, intending to move up a seat to the left.

“No, I’m fine here,” he smiled.

I tried not to look disappointed. I could hardly move up now.

The mother smiled and said, quite unnecessarily,

“He’s fine there,”

Kaylee chattered away. The overhead screen, flashing up the names of patients being called to see the Doctor, beeped.

“That’s my name mummy!” Kaylee proclaimed.

“No, that’s not your name Kaylee,” said mum, loudly, too loudly, so that we all might hear and be amused.

“There’s my Doctor!” asserted Kaylee, pointing to an unsuspecting gentleman who had just walked in and was attempting to use the self service login. (It said “No”).

“Oh, Kaylee, that isn’t your Doctor,” said mum, even more loudly.

I smiled at Kaylee, probably encouraging ‘mum’ to speak to her daughter again, loudly.

“You really are too cute Kaylee,” she broadcast to the room, “you do make me laugh!”

‘Dad’ spoke too but he was quiet. Kaylee could hear him just as well but he was talking to Kaylee, not to the entire waiting room.

“That’s your name!” cried Mum finally as “Kaylee Smith” flashed up on the screen.

I breathed a sigh of relief and sat back to wait my turn. A few other patients seemed to do the same.

Within five minutes they were back, Mum and Kaylee that is. Dad had gone to get the car. I knew this because mum was telling Kaylee loudly,

“Daddy is going to get the car so we’ll wait here in the warm,”

Surely they’d sit somewhere else now? There were several more vacant chairs near the exit. Of course they didn’t. Kaylee beamed at me and scampered back to where I sat. I endured five more minutes of Kaylee’s cute ways being loudly repeated and remarked upon by her mother, lest we should miss them, before Dad came to take them home.

This behaviour can be heard in shops and post offices and parks across the land. It spans generations and perhaps you see nothing wrong in it. Of course we all love it when our children are cute and it’s great when other people tell us how wonderful they are but that’s just it, leave it to others to comment, Your child is cute but please, don’t tell me!

P.S. I would like it put on record that all my grandchildren are cute – can grandmothers be pushy?

Leon in his home made Easter hat fashioned by his creative mum at the last minute using dish cloths, sponges and baby socks (I think he’s cute)

William and Elliott chilling. “Can’t talk now – Toy Story is on!” (very cute)

 

Very Inspiring Blogger…

Stop Press: I have been nominated for, the Very Inspiring Blogger Award, by J.P. Lane. http://jplanewrites.blogspot.co.uk/

I am delighted to accept of course – so, thank you Joan, so glad you enjoy this blog and find it inspiring. Joan’s blog explores the history and foibles of fashion and I urge you to visit.

All I need to do now, according to the rules, is to tell you 7 things about myself. Since my blog tends to tell you everything you need to know about me, this could be tricky and I know I have told you seven things before. However, never fear, there are always more!

In the spirit of the award here are 7 more things you may or may not have known about me until now:

Elliot loves big brother William!

1. Our third grandson was born on 4^th February this year. Elliott George Dennis is gorgeous of course. Here he is with big brother William.
2. Our fourth grandchild is due in August – Wow! We are so lucky )
3. I have spent the past year sorting out the care and welfare of my 30-year-old nephew who has Asperger’s, following the deaths of both my sister and brother-in-law. This has provided both of us with high doses of sadness and hilarity by turn. My husband and I are now well versed in the ways of Social Services and the Care System and also manage a Trust set up by my sister for the beneficiaries. Thank goodness we have both run companies before—administration is everything.
4. I recently had “The boy in the cowboy hat”, published in Memoir Journal. It is a personal memoir about my younger brother who died of AIDS in 1993. I disagreed with the Editor’s substitution of a particular word but they published anyway. C’est la vie!
5. I like eating ginger biscuits with a cup of tea as a treat.
6. I love Eddie Izzard – his humour is right down my street and I enjoyed the recent, ”Meet the Izzards” as he followed the progress of his and our ancestors, across the globe, courtesy of DNA.
7. I hate the question….“So, what are you doing these days?” (you knew that though from my last post but I just had to add it)

Other than that, all there is for me to do, is to nominate my own, favourite, inspiring bloggers. Had I more time the list would be longer but, as it is, here are my two nominations which carry no caveats other than that nominees accept and pass on if they can.

My nominees are:

Catbird Scout for outstanding writing and beautiful descriptions second to none. Deb has a way with words.

Andrea Carlisle Andrea will capture your imagination with her tales from her family’s Prairie past and you’ll be moved to laughter and tears with her wonderful account of life at ‘The Place”—the residence of her elderly mother.

I shall now dust down the plaque that comes with the award and hang it on the wall to the right.

Thank you again Joan!

 

So, what are you doing these days?

“So, what are you doing these days?”

Don’t you hate that question? Doesn’t it throw you? It is fine if you have just come back from exploring the Antarctic or something similar. A few stories from your adventures and you’re done. (I have never explored the Antarctic I hasten to add.)

Otherwise, unless you are talking to your mother or a close family member, you probably have about ten seconds to grab your interrogator’s interest or at least, to let them know you are not a total waste of space.

It happened to me the other day. “Ladies who lunch” had invited me to join them. In the past, this monthly event has been closed to me due to other commitments but at last, I am free on a Wednesday and can attend. On the Wednesday morning in question, I authorised some changes that the care company were making, dealt with a phone call from another care worker, spoke to my nephew (at length) about his latest steam punk gadget, fended off questions about the return of his dog and emailed his social worker with some information she required. I proofed an article for Glow and sent off a short story for possible publication. I checked that the dog we rescued from my nephew’s care, last November, will be ok in his foster home for another few weeks until my older sister is settled in the new home that we, as The Trust, are helping purchase. I then re-read a few chapters of my latest novel and spent half an hour editing.

By lunchtime, I was looking forward to this get together.

The ladies concerned are some old friends, people I used to work closely with and some slightly newer acquaintances.  Numbers vary, the other day, there were five of us.

I was asked the question as we sipped pre-lunch drinks. It was a simple question. It was the sort of question we all ask of each other at some time or other. I don’t know why I hadn’t been prepared for such a question. As it was, I stared at my questioner, and murmured something, I am not sure what, that made me sound as though I actually did nothing at all.

In business we prepare what we call, ‘elevator speeches’. I remember years ago, we had to think up an elevator speech for Glow. It needed to say succinctly and interestingly, exactly what the company did and what its ethos was. All this, in the time it takes to travel from one floor to the next.

In personal life, such a speech would be equally useful I think.

It is only with hindsight that I realize that I probably should have said,

“The sudden death of my sister, leaving us with the responsibility of our 29 year-old nephew who has Asperger’s, has changed our lives dramatically over the past year.”

This is true. This one event has had such a profound effect on all our lives that we are actually shocked when people ask us what we do these days. This is because, for the last year or so, we have been completely swamped with learning about a new world. It is a world totally alien to us until now. I refer to the world of social services and care companies, of form filling and disibility benefits. It has been a year of lengthy battles, a place where fantasy worlds such as Star Wars, World of War Craft and Steam Punk are all that concerns our nephew. These virtual realities are his ‘norm’.

We have had to battle with an inadequate and sadly, downright abusive care company. We have had to attend Will readings, Trust meetings, emergency care meetings and safeguard meetings, best interest meetings, meetings with solicitors to create Power of Attorney, meetings to implement new care plans and more. We have been shouted at and accused of all manner of things by one care company and at one stage had to change the locks on my sister’s house as items began to mysteriously vanish. We had to clear and sell my sister’s house (no light task since she and her husband hoarded for England) and buy our nephew a new, smaller abode. This one act took all our strength for a while. Asperger’s means that our Nephew hates change, he hoards rubbish (it is not rubbish to him) and he wont throw anything away. He imagines that we are trying to swindle him out of something instead of creating a safe and happy home for him where he can thrive and have some cherished independence. If he runs out of money for his fares to his work placement, having spent it all on eBay, it is our fault, if the house is a tip, it is our fault because we have hidden things like the dustpan and brush (they are probably still packed in a number of unpacked boxes stacked in his garage). We have needed an extraordinary amount of patience and understanding this past year and though we do not resent the time and effort it takes, it has taken its toll on us all.

I should add that we have also met some extraordinary people whose patience and understanding has been second to none and our admiration for the care and services they provide, has grown day by day. It is also good to see our nephew beginning to achieve the independence he wants, albeit with a strong support system around him. We can at long last, feel the pressure dropping.

So, next time I am asked that question I will say,

“I write when I can and enjoy grandchildren and family but when my sister died suddenly, just over a year ago, leaving us responsible for the welfare of our 29-year-old nephew, who has Asperger’s Syndrome, my whole life changed.”

If the person asking the question wants to know more, they can ask.

Do you think I will remember my elevator speech the next time I am asked the question? …

…can I carry flash cards?