Citizens

The waiting room at the CAB smells of poor people. I’m sorry, but it does. It’s after 10am when a short lady with long grey pigtails calls me for my 9.30am appointment, and I’m feeling rather grumpy.

As we make our way through the process, she compliments my efforts, my approach and my person. She tells me I am obviously very capable and bright, that I am taking the right path and that I am doing the best I can in difficult circumstances. I warm to her, her precise clipped tones, (a German accent?), her kind eyes, her methodical approach and her attention to grammar. At the end of the appointment, I coyly ask about the accent, not wishing to cause offence but curious all the same. She tells me she’s German, and when I ask where she’s from, she smiles broadly and says ‘Berlin!’

‘Ooooh! I love Berlin.’ I reply and tell her about my trip there in February. We spend five minutes discussing the city and find we agree. As I stand to leave, I thank her for her time and tell her, sincerely, that it has been a pleasure to meet her. She smiles back at me; she likes me, too.