Pandiculate.

Pandiculate. Pand-ick-yule-ate. Pandiculate.

Martin had wanted to use that word for some time. A friend had made him aware its existence a while ago, explaining its meaning as the act of stretching, or yawning, or both.

The urge to use pandiculate in conversation overwhelmed him. Casually using a word as refined as that would give the impression of a huge vocabulary, which Martin considered to be a good measure of intelligence. He was waiting for his moment.

The moment came when he was talking to a colleague. The colleague was Stephen, a tall, good-looking, thirty-something guy whose white shirts always appeared fresh out of the packet. Martin was shorter than Stephen, less traditionally attractive and he did not own a shirt less than two years old. Their conversation was purely surface level. Small talk and small words. Something about football. Then, Stephen mentioned he was feeling a little tired.

Martin saw his opportunity to strike. He could barely contain himself. The moment he had been waiting for. Stretching his arms over his head and faking a yawn for extra effect, Martin said to Stephen with a smile: “Hey! Excuse me while I…PANDICULATE!” (He said ‘pandiculate’ extra loud for effect.)

Much to Martin’s embarrassment, there was no response whatsoever from Stephen.

Luckily though, Stephen died later that week after being thrown out of a high window, so the embarrassment was fairly short-lived. At the funeral, Martin mingled among the mourners and was overheard describing the manner of Stephen’s death as “defenestration”.