Some professions appear to incorporate slightly recondite, behind-closed-doors, on-the-job training regimes.
I have always suspected that there is a hush hush facility somewhere in the UK where all future British Airways pilots are dispatched in order to learn how to speak in that way.
There are probably signs outside to give would-be snoopers the impression that the only things one might encounter inside would be top-of-the-range flight simulators.
My mother, a onetime Miss Bournemouth and later a catwalk model, had to learn how to walk in a very precise manner. Again, I have always suspected that similar deportment classes might have been made available to a recognisable sub-genus of little old ladies in Antigua, all of whom negotiate the roads outside with a sort of lilting waddle, their centre of gravity, already fairly low, shifting downwards to alternate knees with each step taken.
Yet perhaps they have acquired this gait as an unconscious response to the cobbles.
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