Should I complain to the manager, I ask myself (which is
what I frequently do in Sainsbury’s.)
‘Excuse me, my good man (because we British are very polite
when we complain.) Why are your chiller shelves bereft of egg and cress
sandwiches?’
‘Don’t blame me, mate. Blame the Dutch.’
‘Do you know of any such persons of Low Country provenance in the vicinity?’
‘Erm… no.’
‘Very well. This calls for drastic measures.’
And then I would have to go into the car park and look for a
car with NL on the number plate, and the steering wheel in the wrong place, and
wait with patient determination for the owners to make their return. And then I
would have to accost them with:
‘Excuse me, my good Dutchman (because we British are even
more polite to foreigners, just to show them how fabulous we are and how
fabulous they could also be if only they would care to emulate us.) What do you
mean by contaminating our fair ovoid fare? (That’s to confuse them with a neat
little homophone which will cause confusion and give me the upper hand.) Do you
have no care at all that I have been forced to consume the less favoured cheese
and onion today? What have you to say for yourself? I think you’re a bounder,
sir, and I’ve a good mind to biff you on the nose.’ (Unless it was a woman, of
course, because we don’t call women sir.)
And then the Dutchman (or woman) would give me whatever look
passes for askance in the Low Countries and
shrug the shrug of non-comprehension. (At which point I would have the presence
of mind not to assume that he or she was French because we British expect all
persons domiciled south and east of the Channel to shrug when they’re losing
the argument.)
And where would all this lead, you might ask. And well you
might. Trump’s got nothing on me when I’m roused, you know.
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