When I was at school, languages were among my weaker subjects. But as I’ve got older, my ability to ask where the swimming pool is or how much it costs for five apples has diminished even further.
But thanks to Father Christmas, who kindly popped a Furby down the chimney for one of my daughters, my linguistic skills may shortly be taking a turn for the better.
These toys babble all kinds of nonsense in their language of Furbish.
But if I was ever to visit Furbyland, I’d know when a Furby wanted to be tickled, was hungry, needed a sleep or even wanted me to sing to it at bedtime!
Now all I need is to learn the Furbish for a pint of Foster’s and a packet of dry roasted please!