Thin young manager of some sort from one of the gold shops it may have been, few doors back from KV. Tall stringy chap offering nice, full smiles. White shirt striped with half inch blue / red, white undershirt beneath his top button & bearing a shiny, stainless & bronze fringed name-tag. Talking to the auntie seated behind the register, man bent over the desk in order to hear. Bent, bent again and some more bending. Like someone was working a water pump. (A tall Indonesian girl a couple months ago 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 this afternoon. The Indian bending again and again shone and glowed more broadly and convincingly than the bean-pole Faulty Towers proprietor. No put-on here. Buying his leather belt, chap had either failed to measure the article, or else was thinking ahead to middle-age girth. The end protruding behind like a docked tail. (Perhaps it was a present from relatives.) Small wags and flaps with the chap's exertion. Some vibration almost audible. Little doubt substance triumphed over style here. You could be confident even from a distance. That particular darling aunt at the Komala Vilas register brought out flowering smiles in many.
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