David

'Isn' he great?' says the man standing next to me in an exhibition about the artist who dreamt of and then painted the American flag.  I agree.  He is wearing a well-worn baseball cap on the lip of which are brass buttons.  His white shirt has wooden toggles and is open over a white shirt.

'Where are you from?' he asks.  I tell him.  'I thought you might be from France', he says, 'what with your little socks and everything'.  He is from New York by way of ancestry in the West Indies, he tells me.  We discover that he spent a semester studying at the same University as me.  He tells me that he went to see Margaret Thatcher at the big bookshop.  'We didn't talk much', he says.  'She just said, Hello' (he does an English accent) 'and signed my book'.

He is an art dealer and 43 years-old, although he looks younger.  'How old are you?' he asks.  'Aww, just a baby', he replies when I give him an answer.  I ask his middle name.  He gives me an answer.

On the way out, I bump into him again.  'Where are you off to now?' he asks.  I don't have an immediate answer.  'Wanna go get a beer?' he suggests.  I waver but, in the spirit of international relations, agree.  We sit outside.  He orders a pitcher and tells me about his fondness for Patricia Routledge, the democratic cause and Amsterdam.  When we finish, he gives me his card and tells me to look out for any exhibitions he might do in London.  I tell him I will.