Lost in Translation:

True story.

When my now ex-wife and I first moved to New Zealand, she landed a job before I did, and her new colleagues invited us to an after-work BBQ. At some point, a lady introduced herself as Piggy. Well, who was I to judge?
She wasn't particularly overweight, but maybe it was a nickname she'd picked up at school and decided to carry proudly into adulthood. Each to their own, I thought. I've heard stranger names. So I smiled politely, shook her hand, and made a mental note to remember Piggy.
It was several months before we discovered that her name wasn't Piggy at all. It was Peggy. Apparently, Kiwis have a rather creative approach to vowels.
My wife and I nearly fell over laughing when we realised our mistake. The funniest part was that nobody had any idea we'd spent months believing this perfectly respectable woman had introduced herself by a name normally associated with a farmyard.
We'd managed to keep our misunderstanding a secret from everyone, including Piggy herself. Sorry, Peggy.
Then I got a job. By then, I was beginning to feel reasonably confident that I was getting the hang of the local language when one of my workmates approached me.
"Can I borrow a pin?"
I stared at him blankly.
He repeated himself.
Still nothing.
He then gestured with his hand, miming writing. Ah! He wanted my pen, not my pin! Good grief. I'd spent my entire life speaking English, only to discover that I'd arrived in a country where perfectly ordinary words had apparently been issued alternative pronunciations without consulting me.
First, Piggy turned out to be Peggy. Now a pen sounded like a pin. What next? Would I ask for a cup of tea and receive a cup of tie?
A hendbeg is a handbag. Fush and Chups is self explanitary, so I had no trouble understanding that.
I was confused when a bloke told me he was going to paint his dick over the weekend. Apperently he meant his deck.
I began to suspect that learning to understand New Zealanders would be harder than learning Maori. At least with Maori, I'd know I was learning another language.
With the Kiwis, I was never entirely sure whether I was speaking English badly or hearing it correctly.
And somewhere out there, I suspect Peggy is still wondering why that strange English bloke smiled at her so sympathetically when they first met.
The moral of the story? Never judge a person by their name. Especially when you might have got it wrong in the first place.