Are You All Right?

It's the question you never want to hear...typically it means you're upside down in your car (hanging from the shoulder harness) or you've just had a spectacular Wide World of Sports moment on a ski hill, you're trying to regain focus and breath and there's a group of people (with fear in their eyes) peering down at you.

It happened first in Brest. Keith was getting ready to pour drinks when he looked me over and asked “Are You All Right”?

I gave myself as best a look over as I could, I was in a 4 day old shirt and hadn't shaved in a bit, the swelling in my mashed finger was well under control, my limp (ankle) was imperceptible and I was doing my best to exude an air of confidence...so I was fairly certain a near stranger couldn't discern I was in way over my head.

So I decided to take the offensive “Why would you ask me such a thing...isn't it totally obvious to you that I'm just fine dammit!?”

Poor Keith (a nice, polite Brit...an accountant if memory serves me correctly), but he recovered and poured warm gin and tonics (the French haven't invented ice yet and the Brits don't seem to mind), I passed on the tonic as it dilutes the gin.

The next time was in Plymouth when Tim, who was fully apprised of my condition and issues, inquired “Are You All Right?”

OK, we'd become friends and it's nice to have someone express concern, so I gave him a 10 minute run down on how I felt I was turning a corner, even though the Yachtmaster deal was turning into a major hassle, my boat was soon to be torn apart, I was out of stove fuel, we were getting beaten apart by waves and wind on our mooring, I was cold, not sleeping well...you get the picture.

Tim looked a bit quizzical and not all that reassured.

2 days later he asked me again and this time I shortened things up and tried to sound more upbeat, the last thing I wanted was to get involved with some well-meaning social services group and either get held for observation or put on some heavy meds.

Then a casual acquaintance in a pub asked “Are You All Right?” and that did it. Apparently I was in a nation of amateur psychologists, I gave him a distinct brush off and started babbling to a total stranger to my left, not enough to turn me off pubs but give me a break!

And then, on Saturday morning on our weekend at Madeline's, basking in warm sunshine after a good night's sleep in a real house, with a cup of coffee in my hand and great plans for the day sweet Madeline (of all people) looked at me...”Are You All Right?”!!!!!!

I almost did a Danny Thomas coffee spit when it finally dawned on me, “Are You All Right?” is British for “How Are Ya?”...and the answer is “Just Fine Thanks...And You?”!

Apparently I hadn't learned anything in the 70's when the blacks at university started avoiding me (how was a kid from the burb's supposed to know “What's Happening?” is “Hello!” and not “What Are Your Sorry Ass Plans for this Weekend?”).

Anyway, I had to confess this faux pas to Madeline, who laughed until she cried, often covering her mouth with one hand as an expression of pure empathetic embarrassment!

She said she would never be able to ask that again without thinking of me (poor dear girl)!

I decided to get through my remaining days in the UK with my strategy for France, smile when someone speaks to you and say “Je ne parle pas Anglais!”, which turns out to be quite true.

And, if you are ever in Cornwall and a lovely blond woman asks “How Are Ya?”, you'll know the background!

P.S. Keith – I hope someday you stumble across this blog....sorry mate!!!