Imam nuzhda ot pomosh-or something that sounded like that.
What was going on? I had just dropped by for a quick English
Breakfast and there was a dishevelled woman looking fairly
distressed sitting in the corner of Costamuchamoulah and counting
out what seemed to be some stotinki. She was muttering to herself.
Yes, Dear Reader, the currency of a state which we will be
familiarising ourselves with more and more, unless Suttonford plans
to transmit anti-propaganda to deter legitimate Bulgarian
influx. I mean, what could The Town Council say to make other EU
citizens think this market town is such a bad destination? Other
town spokespersons have denigrated the British climate, childcare
facilities, job expectations; have highlighted the plight of the homeless,
have criticised the general inebriation of the locals and so on,
but 380 Bulgarians still thought it an attractive option to come
over and see for themselves, between the end of the summer of
2012 and the beginning of 2013. So, we can’t be that bad.
Frankly, most people in Suttonford would not care if Prince Alex of
Battenberg arrived – ( I can’t think of any other famous Bulgarians and
didn’t recognise any in the lengthy list that I Googled, so there’s no
point in citing them for you)- where was I? -Oh yes, folk here wouldn’t
mind who arrived, so long as the aforesaid immigrants worked and
paid their National Insurance so that supported Suttonfordians could
still afford to have the odd cuppa in Costamuchamoulah in their
Anyway, Imam nuzhda ot pomosh.
Hooray for Babylonian Translation Services on your phone! It means:
I need your help!
So, I paid for the lady’s drink and explained about our currency being
different- or tried to.
Suddenly she said: Ah, how long have I been here? I’m on a yellow
So, she could speak English! I was Confused of Suttonford.
Well, it turns out that she wasn’t Bulgarian. She was a little
disorientated as she had been going to pick up her son from
Guildford Station five days before.
Five days ago! What happened? I hear you say.
Well, she had left Godalming and her GPS had given her instructions
and she just kept following them until she came to Sofia. Then she
had cashed in some Euros that she found in her glove compartment, was given
some shrapnel in change and followed the travel instructions in reverse.
But didn’t you notice the borders or the change in the language of
the street furniture? I asked her.
Not really, she replied. I was too busy listening to what the woman
was telling me.
Az ne govorya balgarski. (No, wait. It doesn’t matter that I don’t
speak Bulgarian!) Where do you want to be now?
Well, actually, I thought Sofia was quite nice, so after I have
freshened up and got some more petrol, I thought I’d head back
What about your son?
He’s probably worked out by now that I am not picking him up and he
can do his own stinky washing! Now that you’ve shown me the
translation service on your phone, there will be no stopping me.
How Many Miles to Babylon- I mean Bulgaria?
A few more than three score and ten, I observed. And you might not
be there by candlelight, I said to myself.
Aloud, I advised: Varvete napravo! Posle savivate na liavo! Do po-kasno!
Which being translated means: Go straight, then turn left! See you later!
Sofia so good! That’s one more place for a Bulgarian in Godalming!