Rodney and Stella in Athens

After entering their hotel’s lobby bar, Rodney located his wife and headed in her direction.

Stella, swiveling her bar stool to greet her husband: “You’re not wearing that, are you, Rodney?”

“I thought I might, yes,” Rodney responded, pecking her cheek, before then turning to the bartender: “Ouzo, please.”

“But it’s the theatre, Rodney!”

“It’s the amphitheatre. When exactly does it start, by the way? And what is playing?

“Seven thirty. Antigone.”

“Sounds like agony,” smiled Rodney, then adding: “You look nice … for a girl just turned fifty.”

“We don’t match. I’m all poshy, and you’re … you’re all shorts, sandals and t-shirt.”

“Standard theatre garb, back in the day … of ancient Greece, that is.”

Then, from somewhere nearby, came a too loud voice: “Duuude, you should like listen to what your old lady says!”

Together, Rodney and Stella turned — to behold a thirtyish, bearded American in a tie-dyed shirt, with both elbows on the bar.

“I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?” inquired Rodney, politely enough.

“She’s not happy with the threads, man ... it’s obvious,” said the American.

“I beg your pardon!” responded Rodney, taken aback by the stranger’s intrusiveness.

“My own personal policy, man,” continued the bearded one, “is to like always do whatever the spousal-unit wants. It keeps me out of all kinds of shit, if you know what I mean.” This was followed by a cackle of self-congratulatory laughter.

🙚🙚🙚

Later, standing in the queue outside the amphitheatre, Rodney leaned over and quietly exclaimed to Stella, “The problem with the Yanks is, they have no sense of boundaries! They butt themselves into any old conversation and/or situation they bloody well please!”

Rodney then noticed, to their side, a baggy-sweater-ed middle-aged woman inching her way into the queue, just in front of them — and he quickly moved forward to fill in the gap. But the woman, undeterred, quickly countered Rodney’s action by taking another small step, thereby placing herself firmly into the ‘notch’ made by Rodney and the gent ahead of them.

Rodney, mustering politeness for the second time that evening, tapped the woman lightly upon the shoulder. “Excuse me, but are you here for the play?”

The woman, however, remained staring forward, pretending not to hear.

“Well, this is the queue for the amphitheatre, I’m afraid,” persisted Rodney, “the end of which is back there!”

Again, she did not respond; and when the gent ahead moved forward, the sweater-ed one adeptly slid herself fully into the queue — whilst smugly muttering back over her shoulder: “Je ne parle pas Anglais, monsieur.”

🙚🙚🙚

In the warm Athenian night air, as they proceeded down the aisle steps of the amphitheatre for their seats, Rodney grumbled to Stella, “Do you want to know why they call them frogs? It’s because the French are a nation of queue jumpers! That is why they call them frogs!”

Reaching their row, they found their two reserved seats to be occupied, by a middle-aged man — wearing three thick gold chain necklaces — and his young super-model-looking companion.

Awkwardly, Rodney held up for display their two tickets, with seat and row numbers clearly printed.

The be-chained one, furrowing his brow, responded by taking from the inside pocket of his pink blazer, his own two tickets, and holding them up.

Rodney immediately spotted the problem. “I’m afraid your tickets are for row ‘DD’” he courteously explained. “This is row ‘D.’ Your seats are up there, near the top.”

Apprehending the portent of the situation, the ‘super-model-companion’ — eight-inch baubles hanging from each ear — fiercely pounded her fist into the man’s thigh, exclaiming: “Nyet! Nyet! Nyet! I not sit way up with normal people. We sit here. What kind Russian billionaire are you, you buy cheapy seats?”

With this, the Russian stood up and pulled from his trousers’ an inch-thick wad of cash — from which he began peeling bills. “We make deal. I give you 500 euro each ticket. We trade tickets, okay?

Rodney was impressed by how quickly Stella was able to snatch their own tickets from his hand and to then consummate the exchange with the Russian.

🙚🙚🙚

Having made some unplanned for additional Grecian purchases due to their windfall, Rodney and Stella, back at London Heathrow Airport, stood in the Customs and Revenue queue.

“You know,” mumbled, Rodney, “we wouldn’t be standing here if it were not for that insufferable nouveau riche Russian!”

When they finally made it to the front, Rodney handed their completed declarations form to the civil servant — who, after examining it, handed it back, saying: “I’m sorry, sir, but this 546-8/A document has been filled out in an incorrect manner.”

“What?” cried Rodney, exasperated.

“The ‘names,’ sir. You have put the surname where the forename should be, and, correspondingly, you have put the forename where you were required to put the surname. It’s all wrong, I’m afraid.”

“Here, give it to me, and I’ll fix it.”

“I’m sorry, sir, once signed, any alterations to the form are not, in point of fact, permitted. Just over there, on the wall, are additional forms. Once you’ve properly completed one, you may get back into the queue.”

As he trudged off with Stella, Rodney muttered, “Welcome back to bloody Britain ... that’s all I have to say ... welcome back to bloody Britain!”