Lost In Translation...

...Have you ever tried to describe a dipstick? Ever sought even to explain in words what the head of a dipstick looks like, or where abouts in relation to a particular car engine it is to be located?

Sounds not too difficult in principle perhaps, though one has to factor in the assumption that the person to whom you are seeking to give such information and illumination has requested it, thereby striping herself - note that - down as a person of severely limited life-skills or faculties.

Is it indeed possible for a grown adult not to know what a dipstick looks like and where to find one on - or in - any particular engine? Should it not in fact be a necessary test to pass for anyone aspiring to the noble title of adulthood that they can be shown seven car engines and spot seven dipstick heads in a trice?

If you add to this volatile mix that one is attempting to provide such information whilst slumbering in complete mental and emotional exhaustion upon the sofa, having the moment before returned safe and sound from Town the all clear [see previous] having once more been given one, if then one lets slip a little temper would it be a matter of any great surprise?

Let us merely record the final printable part of this bitter exchange:

H [herself]: "I still can't see it."

Self: "As I have oft repeated it is at the front of the engine. Now would you kindly let me rest, I am shattered. It has been a testing day all round. Go forth and find your own ruddy dipstick."

H: "Front of the engine? Which bit is the engine?"

The rest is not for preserving in print, though the memory will be seared deep into the soul for ever more.

Which bit is the engine! No jury would convict I tell you.

Ten mins later E arrives to disturb the same fretful slumber. She wants fifteen pounds to treat herself to an Indian meal for the evening, so does Papa have such a sum about his person?

Papa is not overly impressed at such profligacy, but sets aside any domestic fiscal concerns merely to remark that no, actually, Papa does not have fifteen quid to hand. A fact, not a judgement on or denial of the request, but merely a statement of fact. Fifteen quid requested. Fifteen quid not passed over as it was simply not there to be so passed. End of. As I believe E would say.

Poor E though. You could tell from her sweet little shocked look that this simply did not compute. Papa not handing over dosh on demand? An a priori impossibility silently said the sad face of the child.

You could tell my words had about as much meaning to her as H's to me about which particular bit of the engine is actually the engine. There was no aspect of content that in any way resembled a universe she recognised, no purchase could she find on the words with any conceptual cognitive tool or experientially learned capacities.

It could not be that Papa did not have money on demand, any more than that H could require of me that I enlighten her as to the matter of engine qua engine.

Impossible really to translate meaningful speech from the language of male to that of female. Two completely separate species. Might just as well expect a pea to converse with a strawberry, or a gibbon with a bison, or a brick with a spoon. It cannot happen.

All is lost in translation.