Strange afternoon in Knightsbidge yesterday. A grey-haired gentleman scurries past me, talking nineteen-to-the-dozen on his cell phone. Its only a few seconds later, when my brain kicks into gear, that I realise its Jimmy Page. A few moments later, I am stopped by a scowling middle-aged blonde woman in sunglasses with a vair-y heffy mid-European accent: SHE: Excuse please, but vere is Knightsbridge? ME: Youre in it. SHE: But vere are ze shops? ME: (Pointing to shops): There...and there. SHE: Vere is Horrids? ME: Just carry on up this road here. And then she walked off without a smile or a thank-you. I deduce, from her general lack of charm and humour that me must be German. The Master Race never could see the funny side of things. Explains a lot. Whilst I was LMFAO (internally) as to how I would reproduce this conversation to my FB friends, it occurs to me that Ive never actually met a pleasant German (in London, anyhow). Except maybe....once; a (superficially) charming - and very Aryan - German film producer, who looked like hed stepped straight off a recruiting poster for the Hitler Jugend. However, when we had a disagreement over the phone on a point of principle, the stentorian tones of Nuremberg were soon blasting off my earpiece.
Posted on: Sat, 26 Oct 2013 15:14:33 +0000
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