In Perth there is a well-to-do suburb called Claremont, and in Claremont’s shopping centre there are a small number of bars and restaurants. And on certain nights these bars and restaurants are full of beautiful women.

A little while ago I went with some male friends to one of these restaurants for a drink. This place, Kuppa, apparently has a reputation for being popular with 22 year old beauties and somewhat older wealthy men. Being neither, we probably looked a little out of place. For a good two hours we managed to maintain the general thread of a conversation, each allowing the others to break eye contact now and then in appreciation of a lass swaying by. Later though, the restaurant somehow morphed into a nightclub, and at that point, lucid and reasoned talk denigrated into a series of restrained sighs and groans.

Amongst all the miniskirts and hair and heels slinked a beautiful African girl. None of us could take our eyes from her, but one friend in particular was visibly excited. Over the noise he confided something of his history. I wondered where she was from, and quietly rued not having any African languages (save Afrikaans) in Lingopal. A number of them will be though, in future releases. There was nothing to do but speak to her in English. I rose from my chair and walked, a little unsteadily, towards her.

I leaned into her to overcome the noise. By chance my lips brushed her ear. She smelt of berries.

‘My friend once had a …’ – I searched for the word – ‘… negress girlfriend.’ Straightaway I inwardly cringed. Inappropriate is my middle name.

I worried needlessly. She laughed aloud, teeth flashing, and said with a charming melody, ‘I have not heard that word for years!’

Relieved, I continued: ‘He tells me she was highly … erotic.’

This time the laugh didn’t come. She pulled her head away and looked at me seriously. The knot returned to my stomach.

Eventually she spoke: ‘Your friend is right. We negresses are highly erotic.’

I managed to cock a Roger Moore eyebrow, then turned to signal surreptitiously to my friends.  It was to prove a fatal move. On turning back an older gent had his hand on the girl’s elbow. His wrist strained under the weight of his glimmering watch, and his other hand offered champagne from a bottle. It was a French label. She giggled and leaned into him while I looked on awkwardly.

While we don’t have Xhosa or Swahili yet, we do have 43 other languages to help you get by when chatting to foreigners. We can’t help you with heavy watches or French champagne though.

I loved that movie. But I tend to get the idea that it was something else lost, not the language. I guess that was the point.

I’m sure there are 100′s of good language confusion stories where we wish we had Lingopal. Here is one of mine.

I was staying in a backpackers in Sweden and walked into the shared bathroom. There were two guys there speaking German (I think). I was about to walk into the shower cubicle when I thought about tinea (athletes foot) and decided to ask the guys what they thought.

“Do you need to wear thongs in the shower?” I asked.

“Sorry?” one replied.

“Thongs, is it a good idea to wear them in the shower?” I answered.

“Um, I’m not sure. I guess it’s up to you.” he said in a very puzzled voice.

So I decided, what the heck and had a shower anyway. As soon as I was in my shower cubicle, I heard them starting to laugh. I picked out the word flip-flops in their discussion and realised my mistake.

In Australia, we call flip-flops, those casual rubber shoes you wear to the beach, thongs. But in most of the world, a thong is a G-String.

Um, yeah.