I've just come back from a late-afternoon walk up the lane to inspect the messiness the bringers of the sewerage and water reticulation have left behind after their first day on the job.
A fairly recent newcomer to the neighbourhood called out to me and we started talking. "Oh, you're that German from down the lane?" he asked. Whoops! It seems that my reputation has once again preceded me.
Yes, I'm that German from down the lane, and I image the reputation that preceded me was courtesy of a neighbour's wife who, whenever she could spy the Australian flag hoisted up my flagpole, screamed from the mercifully far away gate, "Just because you fly the Australian flag doesn't make you an Australian." There's one in every town and village.
(There's another character across the river who refuses to shop at ALDI. He's quite a jolly fellow and I admire his misguided conviction which costs him money as he's limited to shopping at Woolies and Coles.)
Like Socrates, I'd rather drink my hemlock than deny my German-ness which has stood me in good stead in all those years: industriousness, thoroughness, punctuality, honesty, and perhaps a bit of arrogance thrown in as well; after all, arrogance is still better than ignorance. I am German by birth and Australian by choice - and happy with both.
