Little Hairy-Harry spent hours and hours listening to his friend. He even managed to calm down on the talking front, preferring to listen to Yaya’s accounts of crazy adventures abroad. They were was colourful, amusing and mysterious. He couldn’t catch all the subtleties, but promised himself that he’d look them up anon in his little pocket dictionary (evidently, his little hide-out didn’t accommodate the larger edition).
‘Oh, what does “orgy” mean?’
Yaya raised an eyebrow, stubbed out his cigarette on the ground and a tremor shot through the entire landscape.
‘Well, nothing really, it’s a sorta scrum, kinda like you get in rugby.’
This answer took Little Hairy-Harry no further in his query. He had no idea what rugby was, but he had had the opportunity to taste the salad that went by the same name.
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