Gus

Hitchhiking from Inverness to a bothy near Dundonnell. It took four lifts.

One guy who took us twenty minutes down the road was a gambler by trade. He was only in the Highlands to scope out the odds on the ground by asking locals which way they were going to vote. His hands were rough and red, so calloused I was surprised he could grip his steering wheel.

After that I had my first wild encounter with a bonafide Cockney, a flock of Cockneys in fact, or as we say here a Flockney. I struggled to understand them at all so Gus and I gave our introductory spiel: "nah, well we just had a couple of days off so we thought we'd do some hitching, just take a bottle of whisky and head out! "

The guy beside me, who looked kind of pale, withered and coiled up against the window, turned and laughed. "AHA, SOUNDS LIKE FUCKING HEAVEN MATE! SO WOS WEENR U BOYSH?

And there it was- the dreaded inflection. Having literally no idea what someone is saying to you is fairly awkward but you can get by with the occasional chuckle and constant nodding. But when a question comes along, all time freezes. I turned to Gus, but he was busy engaging the rest of the Flockney. I turned back, the small, pale man was waiting patiently with a smile, ready to receive whatever morsel of information he had requested.

"Erm, just, eh, Inverness, mate"

His brow furrowed and he focused on an imaginary point jus in front of his nose as he digested my answer, trying to somehow link it to the question. Then he mumbled something and turned back to the window.

... did I get it right?