Inside the elevator at my building, me and an old, distinguished Canadian lady, our neighbor next door.
OLD LADY: So what do you think about the weather, George?
GEORGE: Summer’s gone. It’s frisk. I’m getting frisky.
10 seconds of silence go by.
The elevator doors open. On her way out, the old lady delivers in a classy, deadpan style:
OLD LADY: Brisk. You mean the weather is brisk.
Photo credit: Wyscan, on Flickr. Thank you!