Wilson can swear in Spanish!

Over coffee this morning, Wilson casually asked, 'New Dad, what made you think I could speak French?'

'Well, it probably because you told me you could. When you first came to live here, you were constantly reminding me that, unlike you, I could read Beaudelaire only in English translation.'

'Did I actually say I could speak French?'

I considered for a few moments, and had to concede that he had probably not said so in as many words.

'When I first arrived here, your life seemed impossibly sophisticated,' he said. 'You had a water cooler and a computer, while I was a simple anteater from the country. You made me nervous. I may have inflated my abilities a little. I can't even speak Spanish, the language of my home country, since I was in fact born at the zoo in Sussex, and my mum, Mrs Vermilingua, preferred all her children to speak English.'

I nodded, and he continued, 'I can swear in Spanish, a little. One of my stepfathers taught me!'

'If it ever proves necessary to swear in Spanish, I shall know where to come!' I told him.