The plastic surgery seems to be healing well so I thought I'd show my (new) face in town and try out my adopted Scottish accent. Result. Within the space of fifty yards I am regailed as Lesley Howard (fine actor; deceased) and Gordon Ramsay (celeb.cook; vulgar). I oblige in the first instance with my indecipherable autograph and tell the group of local "yuts" to "F*ck Off!". Both seem pleased.
Entering Tescos for provisions I am struck by the paucity of goods on offer or even on the shelves. No Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall hand- hung venison or quail eggs here. But equally no milk, bread or other basic sustenance. Quite took me back to the 3 day week of 1974 when I worked weekend and school holidays for Tescos (well actually the "Home and Colonial Stores" which became International Stores before being taken over by Jack Cohen's mob). I still bear the scars from the Sugar Riots that accompanied each limited delivery of this vital foodstuff. Ah , but those blackout nights.
The Scottish accent will have to go though. I can't help but think that it will only draw undue attention to myself for the nice ladies on the tills to have to speak to me very slowly and loudly each visit before picking coins out my change as I am counting it - even if it is Broadstairs. To tell the truth I was getting sick anyway of the Sean Connery and Brave Heart videos so thoughtfully provided by the Minders.