She had taken the correction well, he assumed, because at least she had not argued her point. (Not that he wouldn’t have half a lecture up his sleeve, if she had wanted to debate it – but at least she had a speck of sense, poor thing.)
“Blott,” he offered, in the same false-bright tone. “International Cooperation. Translator,” he added, because the young woman looked familiar enough from the Ministry. He wasn’t sure she would know his name from his own career, because he was hardly a Ministry notable, but Nick would rather preempt any avoidable assumptions about the obvious link, a little old bookshop called Flourish & Blott.
No, translator had to do for him. He smiled at her, a forced action entirely to resist the terrible urge to quip that, as well as his six or seven fluencies, he was also happy to do his duty as a translator of garbled nonsense to fact. Fluent in dimwit, indeed.
“Blott,” he offered, in the same false-bright tone. “International Cooperation. Translator,” he added, because the young woman looked familiar enough from the Ministry. He wasn’t sure she would know his name from his own career, because he was hardly a Ministry notable, but Nick would rather preempt any avoidable assumptions about the obvious link, a little old bookshop called Flourish & Blott.
No, translator had to do for him. He smiled at her, a forced action entirely to resist the terrible urge to quip that, as well as his six or seven fluencies, he was also happy to do his duty as a translator of garbled nonsense to fact. Fluent in dimwit, indeed.
