Maybe It's Alien Celery.
You know, I'd really like to be able to blame the Rift for the strange people I meet, and with locals I can just about manage that. But frankly, unless its effect is a lot more widespread than previously estimated, I think the English are just weird.
For example, today. I was manning the Information Centre, posting sarcastic comments to bad musicians on myspace minding my own business, because the first part of the month tends to be a bit slow Riftwise, when this English bloke in a cricket uniform ran in. I've nothing against lost cricketers, but we don't see many in Cardiff. Plus he had a bit of celery pinned to his jumper, which is a rather daring fashion accessory even without the uniform.
"Have you got any guidebooks to the Brecon Beacons?" he asked me.
"They're out of date," I replied. "You don't want to go there, believe me. I've been."
"Right -- what about -- the big stone place, by the church?"
"Cardiff Castle?" I asked.
"That's the one."
"Should do," I told him, while he rifled the racks of postcards. I like to put them in a bit of disorder, just to discourage too much browsing. "We don't get many tourists on a Monday," I said.
"Is it a Monday?" he asked. "Which one?"
Which is when I knew he was probably an invading alien, because we only get one Monday a week in these parts, regardless of how many they have out in the Perseids or wherever.
"Perhaps if you tell me what you're looking for," I said, reaching for the Make Jack and Gwen come save me button.
"Aha! Got it!" he said, brandishing a tiny Welsh Dragon key fob, and ran out again. Left his celery behind too, poor sod. I'm willing to let the petty theft slide, because obviously he was in dire need of a dragon key fob and didn't look as though he had two pounds fifty on him.
So you see? We're an eccentric lot, but the English are a good deal more eccentric than most. When I lived in London you ran into someone wearing a vegetable or playing a penny whistle on the streetcorner or wandering around in a velvet jacket all the time, but you don't expect that from nice, sensible Cardiff.
Nope. We just get the blowfish in sports cars.
For example, today. I was manning the Information Centre, posting sarcastic comments to bad musicians on myspace minding my own business, because the first part of the month tends to be a bit slow Riftwise, when this English bloke in a cricket uniform ran in. I've nothing against lost cricketers, but we don't see many in Cardiff. Plus he had a bit of celery pinned to his jumper, which is a rather daring fashion accessory even without the uniform.
"Have you got any guidebooks to the Brecon Beacons?" he asked me.
"They're out of date," I replied. "You don't want to go there, believe me. I've been."
"Right -- what about -- the big stone place, by the church?"
"Cardiff Castle?" I asked.
"That's the one."
"Should do," I told him, while he rifled the racks of postcards. I like to put them in a bit of disorder, just to discourage too much browsing. "We don't get many tourists on a Monday," I said.
"Is it a Monday?" he asked. "Which one?"
Which is when I knew he was probably an invading alien, because we only get one Monday a week in these parts, regardless of how many they have out in the Perseids or wherever.
"Perhaps if you tell me what you're looking for," I said, reaching for the Make Jack and Gwen come save me button.
"Aha! Got it!" he said, brandishing a tiny Welsh Dragon key fob, and ran out again. Left his celery behind too, poor sod. I'm willing to let the petty theft slide, because obviously he was in dire need of a dragon key fob and didn't look as though he had two pounds fifty on him.
So you see? We're an eccentric lot, but the English are a good deal more eccentric than most. When I lived in London you ran into someone wearing a vegetable or playing a penny whistle on the streetcorner or wandering around in a velvet jacket all the time, but you don't expect that from nice, sensible Cardiff.
Nope. We just get the blowfish in sports cars.