Krisjan hou by die vulstasie stil met se rammeklas-bakkie, sy velskoene, flenterhoed en baard. Hy gee sy sleutels, aan ‘n Vierkleursleutelhouer, aan die pompjoggie met die woorde, “Maak vol asb.” Die pompjoggie beloer Krisjan deur sy sonbrille “How much?” “VOL Asseblief”
“Sorry I only speak English”.
Vir ‘n oomblik is Krisjan uit die veld geslaan en glimlag vriendelik:
“English, no problem. Good day to you, Sir. I am experiencing a profound desire to replenish the propellant of my chariot. Therefore I cordially request to you to transfer from your subterranean reservoir a sufficient supply of combustible liquid of the highest octane to fill the appropriate container attached to the said means of perambulation to the brim.
“Hah?”
“Do you have a problem, Sir?” “I thought you said you speak English?”
“English, that is no English!”
“Dear Sir, are you veritably attempting to allude that you do not even recognise the language you alledge to be your singular means of communication?”
“What?”
“Let me try to elucidate it in the most elementary terms: Your paltry grasp of English vernacular is frittering away the limited time at my disposal. Or as we would have phrased it in a civilised and intelligible language: Dit is so duidelik soos daglig dat jy bokkerol van Engels af weet en jy mors my tyd. Verstaan jy nou beter?!” vra Krisjan.
“Ja” se die pompjoggie “ek dink ook Afrikaans is maar beter. Ek maak hom vol......”
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