Thin young manager of some sort from one of the gold shops it may have been, few doors down from KV. Tall stringy chap offering nice, full smiles. White shirt striped with half inch blue / red, white undershirt beneath & bearing a shiny, stainless & bronze fringed name-tag. Talking to the auntie at the register, man needs to bend over the desk in order to hear. Bend, bend again and some more bending, like someone was working a water pump. (A tall Indonesian girl couple months back walking with two friends had self-deprecatingly described her party as a pair of bears in company of a giraffe.) John Cleese too came to mind here. The Indian bending again & again shone and glowed more broadly and convincingly than the bean-pole Faulty Towers proprietor. No put-on. Buying his leather belt, chap had either failed to measure the article, or else was thinking ahead to middle-age girth. From the side within the dining hall the end protruding behind looked every bit a docked tail of some nicely domesticated household pet. (Perhaps it was a present from wife or relatives.) Small wags & flaps with the chap's constant exertions; almost audible the vibrations. Little doubt substance triumphed here over style. One could be confident even from a distance. That particular auntie at the Komala V. register brought forth a rich bounty of flowering smiles herself in response.
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