Smartypants and Humble Pie
I’m probably a smartypants. Several times now I have noticed people try to posh-up their talking when they speak to me. The neighbour puts “hs” (”Aitches”?, “hhhhhhhs”? - no idea how to write this, thus a smartypants I might be, although people who say “thus” probably are) where they shouldn’t be. She says: “My husband and I are the hopposite” and I can tell I’m reeling and hope she doesn’t notice, because as cockneys they probably know someone who could could break my leg for a monkey (that’s £500 to you and me).
I don’t want to be a smartypants. They put everyone off ease. I want to be dumbslacks, or at least a dimtrousers.
Today a mate was describing a product which would “cater for whatever you are interested in from guns to theatre.”
Other mate: “Guns and theatre? That’s a strange mix.” Laughter from surrounding mates.
Me: “That’s what Lincoln said.” No laughter from anyone, mates or otherwise. I’m not saying I’m brighter than anyone, but it was probably a wise-ass thing to say.
So I am a smartypants, but to dumb myself down would be sound insulting to anyone listening who knew what a smartypants I am.
I need a big slice of humble pie. With loads of ice cream. More ice cream than anyone else has on their pie. See how it much bigger than yours. Actually, it’s a tarte a humilite…