Mary sighed. “Sure you're in the right job?”
Tibbit appeared crestfallen at this, so Mary changed the subject.
“How long have you been down here?”
“Six months. I was poster for three months but I think they've forgotten about me. I don't mind,” he added quickly, “I like it.”
“First name?”
“Otto,” he replied, then added by way of explanation: “Palindrome as well. My sister's name is Hannah. Father liked word games. He was fourteen times world Scrabble champion. When he died we buried him at Queenzieburn to make use of the triple word score. He spent the greater part of his life campaigning to have respelt those words that look as though they are spelt wrongly but aren't”
“Such as---?”
“Oh, skiing, vacuum, freest, eczema, gnu, diarrhoea, that sort of thing. He also thought that “abbreviation” was too long for its meaning, that “monosyllabic” should have one syllable, “dyslexic” should be renamed “O” and “unspeakable” should be respelt “unsfzpxkable”.”
“How did he do?”
“Apart from the latter, which has met with limited success, not very well.”
Mary's eyes narrowed; she feared she was having her leg pulled, but the young man seemed to be sincere.
