‘To what do we owe invasion by the Mongol horde?’ I asked
the woman assistant at the counter.
‘Don’t know,’ she replied blankly. I had the impression that
she didn’t actually know what a Mongol horde was, and might even have thought
me guilty of political incorrectness. I considered explaining that Mongols are
people from Mongolia, and
that their historic invasion of refined China and subsequent replacement of
the refined Han Chinese dynasties led to the birth of the pejorative euphemism.
But I couldn’t be bothered, and then I noticed that two of the horde were
standing behind me.
‘Where are you from?’ I asked them. (I did realise that
ending a sentence on a preposition is slightly unrefined in itself, but decided
that ‘Whence came you?’ would have sounded unwontedly pretentious.)
‘Nottingham.’
Now, it is an odd coincidence that some of the snootier Ashbourne
residents would consider there to be little to choose between Mongolia and Nottingham
in the matter of assessing horde status, but not me. I’m not snooty. (And the
coincidence didn’t strike me until later anyway…) So I continued:
‘And what are you doing here?’
(This makes me sound like a right douchebag, doesn’t it?
Maybe the person who called me one on YouTube the other night was right after all.)
‘Camping,’ replied the Mongol.
‘Camping, is it? I see. OK.’
I retired to a table with my Americano and blueberry muffin
while the two invaders rejoined their comrades, who by now had settled
themselves tidily around two small tables near the window. And they were quiet
as mice for the rest of my visit.
So then it struck me that there was a certain irony to be
found in their behaving in an orderly and respectful manner, while I had been guilty
of gross impertinence. And that amused me.
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