Waiting for marmite on toast in the deli-from-helli this morning, I was standing next to an old man, who asked for a toasted bagel and a strong cappuccino. He was about 5′3″, wrinkly and pink, in a typically English kind of way, wearing a cravat and a heavy coat, though it was a delicious spring morning for the first time in weeks. He greeted the serving staff (this morning: DishPig and BadCop) amiably and with familiarity. His accent was pure Kensington. They chatted for a while.

Then BadCop asked him if he wanted chocolate sprinkles and he said

“Si, por favor.”

She looked at him twice.

When DishPig handed him the coffee he said

“Gracias”

in a completely Englishman-speaking-foreign accent. Grassy-arse.

DishPig said “I’m not Spanish. I’m Armenian.”

“Oh,” said the man, looking utterly crestfallen.

BadCop gave him his change and he pocketed it, with a concerned expression on his face, thinking, thinking.

And then, as he left the shop, he pipped a cheery “Arrivaderci!”

BadCop rolled her eyes in contempt at his departing figure, and I waited for my breakfast.