A couple of days ago I hopped into a taxi (closing the door very carefully behind me). The driver was listening to the radio, one of Chile's evening radio-talk shows, and the studio anchor was interviewing - via skype - a reporter who had been sent to London for the Olympics.
The reporter was waxing enthusiastic about the city, about the games, about the slightly excessive security arrangements, and the studio anchor, bored with generalities, broke in with a rather more personal question.
"I understand you were able to bring someone to London with you. Did you bring your girlfriend along?"
"My girlfriend? No, I didn't bring my girlfriend. I brought my mother!"
The studio anchor expressed disbelief. "Your mother? You didn't take your girlfriend? What does your girlfriend think about that? Leaving her behind?!"
The reporter sounded nettled. "Yes, I brought my mother. I love my mother. I adore my mother! Going to the Olympics has always been her dream, and, right now, I have been able to make that happen for her. My girlfriend is fine with it. She is very happy for me. Very happy for my mother- "
The studio anchor broke in on his happy, proud-son, pro-mother affirmations.
"Yes, fine. So you left your girlfriend at home. That's good. That means that I can ask you the question that we, back here in Chile, have all been wanting to ask. Tell me: are there many prostitutes in London right now?"
There was an infinitesimal pause, a pause that could almost have been chalked up to long-distance telephone lag.
"I have absolutely no idea." The reporter said firmly. And rather quickly after that, the interview wrapped up.
And my brain is ever so slightly boggled.