"What? What is that? You know I don't speak Latin", an old geezer sitting in a corner querulously complained.
""Utinam barbari spatium proprium tuum invadant" means "May barbarians invade your personal space" dear", his equally ancient wife, sitting beside him, explained with weary patience.

When a warrior stood up and began shouting about thieves, the crone looked over and ogled the warrior flaunting his muscles: "Now look at that handsome beefcake. If only I was twenty years younger...". The old geezer disapprovingly looked at the young man, who could not be more than 50 or 60 years old. "What a vain peacock", the octogenarian muttered, "if you had been 20 years younger, wife, I would have had to put some hemlock in his wine".


Valeria, sitting on the other side of the tavern, curiously looked at the man poking around in some mud. "What on earth is he doing?" she thought. "Is he trying to read the future from the patterns of the sediment? Did no one ever tell him, that you need entrails to get reliable auguries?"