Tim Dowling: After 35 years in the UK, I’m still getting lost in translation

Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The GuardianView image in fullscreen Illustration: Selman Hosgor/The GuardianTim Dowling: After 35 years in the UK, I’m still getting lost in translationWhen is a valise not a valise? When you’re in a foreign land where they call it a holdall The band I’m in is cruising to the end of its tour, with two nights at Victoria Hall in Settle, headlining a weekend festival. The weather on the drive up from Manchester is unpromising, but by the time we reach Settle the sun is out, the festival already under way.

Touring has been hard on our stuff. In the green room people are changing strings and swapping out faulty cables. Wives – not mine; she’s not coming until the next day – begin to arrive by train.

Performing some idle calculations in my head, it occurs to me that, with the arriving wives, the late-night convoy heading to our accommodation – a Travelodge 30 miles away – will contain one more passenger than there are seats. I think: just don’t let that passenger be you.When I raise the subject with the drummer, he lists band members and wives while counting down available seats on his fingers, until he’s holding up two closed fists.

“I haven’t forgotten anyone, have I?” he says.“Me,” I say.

“Oh,” he says. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.”I try not to worry as I watch the other musicians perform, including Amber Lilly, a singer-songwriter who shared a bill with us last year.

But even as our own set begins, I’m still wondering how to avoid getting left behind.By the end of the night nothing has been worked out except the identity of the unseated passenger: me. In a panic, I approach the festival organiser, who is talking to Amber Lilly, and explain the problem.

I only get part way through my story when Amber Lilly interrupts.“We can give you a lift,” she says, pointing to her partner, who is holding some car keys and wearing an expression of surprise unmodulated by enthusiasm.“Are you sure?”

I say.“We’re going that way anyway,” she says.“I’ll be quick,” I say.

“Thank you!”I run up to the dressing room to collect my overnight bag, but it’s not there. I run back down to the stage to search the wings.

Nothing. I consider the possibility that I left it in Manchester.I run upstairs again, and downstairs again, all the while thinking: you promised to be quick.

“What are you looking for?” says the drummer.“My bag,” I say.

“I’m sure I had it this afternoon.” But I’m no longer sure of anything.“What does it look like?”

says Amber Lilly, letting her eyes fall on the array of overnight bags waiting at the foot of the stage.“It’s, you know,” I say. “A valise.”

Everyone turns to look at me.“A valise?” says the drummer.

The stage crew, busy coiling cables, snigger.What I mean is: a soft bag with a top like a peaked roof, and a handle either side. My wife gave it to me for Christmas.

I’ve never had to describe it before.“Valise,” I say, my face colouring. “Look it up.”

Thirty-five years I’ve lived in this country, and one slip can still make me feel like a foreigner.“How big is your valise?” says Amber Lilly.

Everyone laughs.“It’s valise-sized,” I say.skip past newsletter promotionafter newsletter promotionWhile I’m searching behind the stage curtains, the guitarist walks in with my bag.

Evidently I’d left it in a car. People shout my name.“We found your valise!”

someone yells. The room erupts.I take my bag and show it to Amber Lilly’s partner.

“What do you call one of these in your language?” I say.“A holdall,” he says.

“Because it literally holds all,” he says. I look down at my bag.“It literally doesn’t,” I say.

Then I think: shut up; he’s giving you a lift.Tim Dowling: the band shuns my new jokes. But telling the old ones proves even riskierRead moreI also think: I wish my wife was here.

She would understand what a setback this episode constitutes for me.When I tell her the next day, she also laughs, but she gets it.“I’ve been using holdall as a synonym for duffel bag,” I say.

“All these years.”“Well, you’re not wrong,” she says.“But mine’s not a duffel bag,” I say, “It’s more structured, with a peak.”

“Like a Gladstone bag,” she says.“I was never going to come up with that,” I say.“Or maybe a grip,” she says.

“I’m just thankful I didn’t say portmanteau,” I say. “They’d still be laughing.”But that conversation is 12 hours hence: I’m still in the backseat of Amber Lilly’s car, following the band’s van twice round a roundabout outside Skipton, until a Travelodge finally presents itself.

“Thank you so much for this,” I say, opening the door.“Don’t forget your valise,” says Amber Lilly.Explore more on these topicsFamilyThe Tim Dowling columnfeaturesShareReuse this content