It is Sunday morning, I am at home, half awake, flicking through the pages of The Observer in the blissful knowledge that for the first time in weeks it is a Sunday where I neither have to work nor travel. The conversation is the type of Sunday morning discourse that fades in and out, going nowhere in particular.
There has, I am aware, been talk of my mother's broken foot for the last couple of minutes, for, like numerous footballers before her, she has broken her metatarsal.
"If you said the word 'ginnel' to someone whose first language wasn't English they wouldn't know what you meant".
For the accident occurred in a ginnel.
"They wouldn't know what you meant outside of Yorkshire" I add.
"Yes, ginnel's very much a Northern word". I pause. A conversation I had on a bus in the middle of South London comes to mind. "It's like the word 'breadcake'; Dean said that [Director Boy] didn't have a clue what he meant".
"They don't use the word breadcake in London?". I can tell that my mother is adding this to the list of reasons why the North is infinitely superior to anywhere below Sheffield.
"Then, what on earth do they call a breadcake?"
"Erm" I make some gesture with my hands, as if that is going to help the situation. Because obviously I cannot comprehend a world where the word breadcake is not used either. And I have lived in the south. "A roll?"
"But that's not a roll".
"No it isn't" my father contributes.
I nod. Those Southerners with their southern ways. They shall be getting us to call dinner 'lunch' and tea 'dinner' next. "I know".
We all sink back into the silence of our Sunday papers, safe in the knowledge of the linguistic superiority of our county.