The Old Guy Strikes Back

I wasn’t looking forward to breakfast this morning, what with broad-zilla threatening a formal hostile work environment complaint.  But there was blissful silence on the ride over to the DFAC and then, by the time I got my food and found the table, I opted for the empty chair far away from the offensive one.  I found myself sitting next to a charming young lady who was goading my guys into a game of Twenty Questions.  The jackals had figured out she was from Africa.  East Africa.  And there they stalled.

“Uganda?” I asked?

“Yes!”  she chirped, in a slightly British-sounding accent.  Not surprising, given Uganda’s history of British rule during the colonial era.

The jackals sensed a new alpha male poaching on their turf.  It only got worse when the subject of the capital of Uganda came up.  They spluttered, I softly said, “Kampala, right?”

Her eyes brightened again.  The jackals glowered.  God, I was having fun.  The young pups never miss a chance to dog me for my age – the youngest member of the team, Marcus, is younger than my daughter.  In fact, they recently started a mustache-growing contest in an attempt to de-throne me as the “stache-master.”  And the peach-fuzz-masters have a long way to go.  So I was basking in the moment of age and experience trumping youth and vitality.

We went through the “where-do-you-work-what-do-you-do” kabuki dance.  She demurred, and we, of course, are reluctant to broadcast our association with Area 82.  Maybe she’ll be more forthcoming next time we see her at breakfast.  And maybe we’ll be ready with some convincing lies.

Then we got around to the introductions.  Her name is Emma.  Spencer reduced us to tears when he gave his name as “Spence-oire.”

Every now and then, I still find myself amazed at what we’ll do for amusement or entertainment here.