“Registration please,” said the young woman on the other side of the glass, without looking up from the little booklet she was thumbing through.
“Aitch… Vee…,” I started.
“Kay Bee,” she repeated back. Okay, repeated isn’t the right word there.
“No, aitch,” I said,”and vee.”
“Jay Pee?” she asked, brow furrowing, but head still not raising.
“Aitch!” I said with perhaps a little too much force. Her head lifted and her puzzled face with its confused grimace and perplexed eyes finally pointed in my direction.
“Aitch,” I said, mouthing the word slowly for her benefit.
“Oh,” she said (thankfully, not the letter), “haitch!”
“No, aitch, you poorly-educated, cloth-eared bint,” I replied. In my mind. I’m far too reserved to speak my innermost thoughts.
I nodded with a forced smile and then drew the letter in the air with my finger while saying “vee” to her.
“Hi, I’d like to get a season ticket for my car,” said a man who had just come in and glided up to the counter next to me and Miss Deafy McThick. “It’s for Charlie Alpha Fiver Niner X-Ray Whiskey Foxtrot,” he rattled off.
My would-be ticket-issuer and I shared a glance with a hidden meaning. It might have been “see, we wouldn’t have had all this trouble if you’d said Hotel Victor from the start” but I choose to believe it was actually “I’ll just bet that tool using the phonetic alphabet drives an Audi.”
Mere minutes later I left clutching my ticket.