Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

Sometimes I play this game when arriving in a strange town on my European travels: if I were plonked down here, could I guess where I was? In an increasingly globalised, homogenous world it should be tricky.

Now that rather eccentric, rounded red building could be a Rathaus - a town hall - in Germany or Austria. Those gabled windows could be Dutch. The sweeping, ugly, 1960s low-rise shops could be found all over Europe. But there's no decay - they are clean and well-maintained. A prosperous place obviously, and something says "southern England". Apart from the obvious difficulty of suspending disbelief, language is the give-away. "E karn arf drinkalot" says a bloke to his companion, as they pass me in the street.

Then there is behaviour. A beautiful woman in her late teens or early twenties sits in a curry house, with - I guess - her sister and her children. She's howling drunk.
"We know they're married."
"Married?"
"Well, it's better than bumping into them in Morrisons," sis says in consolation.

As the curtain descends on this tantalising glimpse of romantic disappointment the woman staggers outside. Arms waving, she manages to drop her unlit cigarette twice. It is a mystery how we Brits got a reputation for reserve and stiff upper lip. We are surely as demonstrative as any Latin, if requiring a little lubrication. I write this with no intention of censure and certainly not moral superiority, but surely this could only be England.

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