I've just come back from a walk up the lane where 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. I image the reputation that preceded me was courtesy of a neighbour's wife (now deceased) who, whenever she saw 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 village.
(There's another character across the river who refuses to shop at ALDI because it's German. He's quite a jolly fellow but his misguided ideology costs him plenty as he's stuck with Woolies' and Coles' inflated prices.)
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.
