Where we witness Devotion in Geordieland

As part of our new dedication to thrift on our Job Seekers Allowance Bee and myself make a trip to Primark in Newcastle city centre this afternoon. We are rifling through their bargain jumpers when a man approaches Bee-
“Here pet, can ye help is with this.  Is this what you lasses call a gillett?" He says, holding up a 

sleeveless suede jacket with a fluffy lining.
“Gillett?” she says, looking mystified.
Even though she moved here from Manchester a gazillion years ago, she is absolutely hopeless when faced with a broad Geordie accent. I have to do subtitles for her whenever Cheryl Cole is on X factor.

“Aye, a for lined gill- lett!”  The man repeats more slowly and loudly, much as my hubby does when we’re abroad.

“Yes I say,” jumping in as he’s starting to get exasperated, “I believe it is.”

“That’s champion pet,” he says relieved. “Wor lass has sent is doon here for a furry Gillet, size fowerteen and if a gan back with the rang thing, I’ll have me heed in me hands.” He rolls his eyes and makes a cutting action across his throat with  his fingertips.

“His wife has sent him down here for a fur gilet, size fourteen,” I say, translating rapidly. “If he goes home with the wrong thing his wife will...  ”

“...chop his head off?”  Bee finishes, jaw dropping, “seems a bit severe.”

“This is just the thing,” I say to him, “right size too.” 

“Don’t suppose you lasses knaa where the knickers are?”

I point him in the right direction.  He goes off into the crowd, a happy man.

“Wow, can’t believe he’s come in here on a Saturday shopping for women’s clothes, let alone undies, that’s what you call love.” Bee says impressed.

I nod, looking after him.  “If I offered hubby the choice of shopping for clothes for me or having his teeth drilled with out anaesthetic, it would be a tough choice.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bee says.

“You’re right.” I nod, “he would definitely choose the teeth drilling.”