They were having a dialogue: at least that's what she told him. 'Why do you have to speak like that?' He was more bemused than angry. 'Speak like what?' She was more angry than bemused. 'Using pretentious words like dialogue. Why can't you just speak like normal people and say conversation or argument, or even better: call a spade a spade and say rammy. Your problem is your university education.' He regretted saying it even before the words had formed in his mouth. His bemusement at her anger had caused him to speak out loud words that he didn't really mean: he wanted her to know that he thought this whole discussion was ludicrous. 'What did you just say to me?' She was trying hard to appear calm, but her whole body language and her eyes - especially her eyes which had turned icy cold - told him that she was anything but. She was trying hard not to explode and shower him with tertiary educated invective; to pummel him into dust with her higher learning adjectives. Her anger at his bemusement was about to erupt: he sought to flee her pyroclastic flow of castigation. He sought to flee the ashtray that was now flying in his direction. As he leapt out the room, he screamed his belated and useless apology at her: 'I'm sorry, I think Walter Smith's an arse too!'