One for My Baby by Tony Parsons

kind of private income – all of her carrier bags are from Tiffany and Cartier. Then there is Imran, a handsome young man in Emporio Armani kit, and Zeng, who is wearing odd socks and spectacles mended with sellotape. They have nothing in common apart from Churchill’s International Language School. But studying there has created a bond between them and I find myself doing something that I haven’t done for a long time.
    I find myself having a good time.
    More drinks are ordered. Students shout at each other in fractured English over the sound of the Corrs asking what they can do to make you happy. Zeng is sitting next to me and I take the Guinness he is clutching away from him as he starts to nod off.
    “Always sleeping,” Yumi tuts.
    “Wah,” Zeng says, shaking himself awake. He smiles apologetically and reclaims his beer. “Sorry, sorry. Last night I did not sleep. My host family were arguing. Now I am very … I am very … fuck.”
    Gasps of astonishment around the table. A few snickers of laughter.
    “No bad words!” Yumi says.
    Zeng looks embarrassed. “Excuse me,” he says, avoiding eye contact with his teacher.
    “That’s okay,” I tell him. “These words are part of the language you’re studying. A lot of great writers have used the vulgar vernacular. This is interesting. What are you trying to say? That you’re very tired?”
    Zeng sighs. “Yes. Last night my host family were arguing about some such thing. They were very drunk.”
    “He rents a room from a family who rent the room from someone else,” Yumi says. “Illegal. And with very low people. Uneducated.”
    “They are not so bad,” Zeng says. “But now I am very, very … fucking.”
    “No,” Wit says. “You are fucked off.”
    “That means angry,” I say.
    “He is … perhaps … fucked up?” Wit suggests helpfully.
    “He could say that. But that implies something other than tiredness. He could just say – I am fucked.”
    Zeng chuckles. “Yes, it’s true. I am fucked.”
    “So many of these bad words in English,” Wit says. “In German, there are many words for you. Du, dich, dir, Sie, Ihnen, ihr and euch . In English, there’s only one word for you . But many bad words.”
    “Not so many bad words,” I say. “But lots of different meanings to the bad words.”
    “Yes,” Gen says. “Such as – I do not give a fuck .”
    Yumi gasps. Vanessa titters. Wit stokes his chin in contemplation.
    “Means – I do not care,” Gen says loftily.
    “Or you could call someone a useless fuck,” I say.
    “Means he is not very good at making love?” Yumi says.
    “No, no,” I say, blushing furiously. “It just means he’s a useless person.”
    “Eskimos have fifty different words for snow,” Wit observes. “The English have fifty different words for fuck.”
    “Fuck my old boots,” I say.
    Frowns around the table.
    “What is this – fuck old boots?” Wit says.
    “It’s an expression of surprise,” I explain. “Like fuck a duck.”
    “Sex with a … beast?” Zeng says. “Like in yellow films? Love with a duck?”
    “We don’t call them yellow films. That’s a Chinese expression. Here we call pornography blue films.”
    “Wah!”
    “No, fuck a duck’s another exclamation of surprise.”
    “Like – fuck all?” Wit asks.
    “No, that means – nothing.”
    “Fuck all means – nothing?”
    “That’s right. You’re thinking of fuck me .”
    “In the steakhouse where I work,” Wit says, “there were these bad men. Very drunk.”
    “Mmm,” Vanessa says. “Very English, no?”
    They were unhappy with their bill and called for the manager, Wit continues. “Then they threatened to kick the fuck out of him! And called him fuck face!”
    “That’s very bad,” I say.
    “What is this expression – to fuck someone’s arse off?” Gen says, as if he’s enquiring about some arcane point of etymology. “Is it sex – how to say? – in the rear? Sex – how to say? – up the Wembley Way? That