Kristina

Getting off the bus, I am beckoned by an elderly lady with a dark pink padded coat.  She wears a beanie (also pink but a lighter shade) and a green checked scarf.  Her nose is pointed and small white hairs grow from her chin.  She wants me to help her and her tartan shopping trolley down onto the pavement.  I take the trolley first and then lend her my hand.  She keeps hold of it. 

'Are you French?' she asks, as we pause hand-in-hand on the pavement.  I tell her I'm not.  'You have a Latin look about you', she says.  I ask if she lives nearby.  'Oh no', she says, 'I don't live round here.  Too busy.  Too many druggers.'  She tells me she was brought up in Dublin.  'I'm a member of the Roman Catholic Church', she says.  I ask my question.  'What's your name?' she replies.  I tell her.  'That is an English name', she admits, 'What's your surname?' she says, continuing her interrogation.  I tell her.  'Perhaps you've got some French in you, from the past', she says, 'You've got a Latin look about you'.

Still holding hands, I ask my question again.  She tells me her middle name.  'But I don't use it', she says, 'It's too German'.

I thank her.  We squeeze hands and release.