Tooting My Own Horn

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Tooting My Own Horn

Upon leaving work on Wednesday of last week I was particularly immersed in revelries. All sorts of thoughts floated through my head: all the things that I had accomplished, all the things that I had failed to accomplish, people I still needed to check in with, what were we going to have for dinner? In other words, I was micin. Micin is one of my favourite Bermudian vurds along with mug and oh durr. (Mug and durr are for another time.) And I love how the autocorrect had a field day trying to correct micin, mug and durr.

 

(In case you have no idea what I’m talking about, google Bermudian vurds for full definitions of the aforementioned words.)

Pride From Tooting My Own Horn

In full mice mode, I got on my bike, and headed home. On the way, what seemed like more people than usual spoke to me in the uniquely Bermudian way that motorists say hello. Unlike my Mother, who, it seemed knew each of her friends by their license plate number, most of the time, I don’t recognize the motorist driving the car or on the bike until about 20 feet down the road. By that time, my answering toot would be mistaken for a greeting for the next motorist passing me and then he or she in turn would say hello and I would have systematically ruined the greeting ritual which is the toot. And I would probably hear about it later in someone saying that they passed me on the street and I didn’t toot back.

So, last Wednesday, I was quite pleased with my tooting capabilities as I was on the ball with tooting the numerous people who were greeting me on my way home from work. I greeted them, many of whom I recognized, with equal enthusiasm.

Basically, I was getting an inflated sense of pride from tooting my own horn.

Then, at one point on my ride, I realized that something might not be quite right.

 

In Other Bermudian Vurds

At least two motorists (I didn’t know either of them) shouted something at me, then a car flashed its lights. Now I knew that something was up.

I emerged out of my micin and thought, for a brief second, that I seemed a tad colder than usual. My jacket was on but, my head was cold. It was at that moment that I recognized that words that had been shouted may have been, “Helmet! Helmet! Helmet!”

I immediately pulled over to the side of the road with nothing else on my mind other than rectifying my mistake. I found that I had pulled over in front of about a half dozen construction workers who were speaking amongst themselves in Portuguese. They saw me suddenly swerve in their direction and pointing to my head burst into laughter. I cracked up with them. We had a delightful conversation, where none of us understood each others’ words but we all knew what we were talking about and shared the best time laughing about how dopey I had been.

 

 

 

 

 

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