Well. I survived the US with my sense of humour and length of temper only mildly pruned. To return to the simple joys of Geneva, and to further distance myself from the horrors of football-field-sized carparks and football-team-sized people, let me steal a story from some friends: These friends, like us, speak little French. And they, like us, live in an apartment block. Well, how lovely! One day there is a knock on their door and it’s a young Frenchman. They soon work out that English is the common language, he introduces himself as the new neighbour, they smile and make small talk. Then, out of the blue, he asks: “Do you have any scotch?” Woah! They were amazed at how forward and friendly he was. Unfortunately, they didn’t even have a beer in the fridge.
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