About 15 minutes into my Sunday walk I was looking into a shop window when this amiable individual came up to me and gave my hand a hearty shake.
The story was that he knew me. My reply was that I did not know him but that did not matter, our wives knew each other and, often, passed a few words together when they met in the street. That should have alerted me. My wife is hardly ever in the street. She usually goes straight down to her car and drives out of the building and back. The only people who know her are those who live in the building.
Anyway, it turned out that his wife had left for Valencia, where her sister was having an an operation and he, like an idiot, had slammed the door on himself with his keys. This made him one of the boys, since the same has happened to me and produced empathy on my part. He had to find a place to sleep because his wife would not be back until Monday but, still, he’d make out. Of course he’d left his credit card inside, as well, and he’d even phoned RAC but, without identification, they did not want to know.
Then he asked me what I was reading and he confessed to being an addict of good crime fiction, Conan Doyle, Agatha Christy. Did I know Peter Falk, Angela Langsbury?
I know my character for being a soft touch and don’t leave, on my walks, with more than 10 euros, enough for a cup of coffee, in my wallet. I did not get that coffee this morning. He did!
I was glad to see him go, because 50 metres up the road was the café where I was to meet my wife, son and daughter-in-law. I said, “Can you pay for this, because I’m skint. I’ve just helped a neighbour who has locked himself out”
I tell the story and get a pitying look from the kids but a longsuffering one from the wife.
“Dad, you’ve been taken for a soft touch. Again.”
The moral of this story is
Don’t worry about the Rumanian gypsies. The local, respectable, clean shaven, well spoken individuals are the ones to watch.
That goes for the internet and those innocents with credit cards, too.
The story was that he knew me. My reply was that I did not know him but that did not matter, our wives knew each other and, often, passed a few words together when they met in the street. That should have alerted me. My wife is hardly ever in the street. She usually goes straight down to her car and drives out of the building and back. The only people who know her are those who live in the building.
Anyway, it turned out that his wife had left for Valencia, where her sister was having an an operation and he, like an idiot, had slammed the door on himself with his keys. This made him one of the boys, since the same has happened to me and produced empathy on my part. He had to find a place to sleep because his wife would not be back until Monday but, still, he’d make out. Of course he’d left his credit card inside, as well, and he’d even phoned RAC but, without identification, they did not want to know.
Then he asked me what I was reading and he confessed to being an addict of good crime fiction, Conan Doyle, Agatha Christy. Did I know Peter Falk, Angela Langsbury?
I know my character for being a soft touch and don’t leave, on my walks, with more than 10 euros, enough for a cup of coffee, in my wallet. I did not get that coffee this morning. He did!
I was glad to see him go, because 50 metres up the road was the café where I was to meet my wife, son and daughter-in-law. I said, “Can you pay for this, because I’m skint. I’ve just helped a neighbour who has locked himself out”
I tell the story and get a pitying look from the kids but a longsuffering one from the wife.
“Dad, you’ve been taken for a soft touch. Again.”
The moral of this story is
Don’t worry about the Rumanian gypsies. The local, respectable, clean shaven, well spoken individuals are the ones to watch.
That goes for the internet and those innocents with credit cards, too.
