Poles Apart
Checking in at an Aberdeen hotel last night I discover that Monika, the receptionist, is Polish and, seeing my surname on her computer screen, she subjects me to a rapid-fire quiz about my own origins. She discovers that my family hail from the same part of Poland as her own (Lodz) and that, for most of my life I have been mis-prouncing Zycinski.
"It should be said Zhishinski, " says Monika who shakes her head with despair as I run through some other Polish words in my limited vocabulary. She then ticks me off when I reveal I have never visited Poland.
"You must go, " she insists and there's a look in her eyes that suggests dire consequences if I refuse, "but don't go in the winter."
Half an hour later Tom Morton turns up at reception. He's presenting his show from Aberdeen this week and we've arranged to go out for dinner. Unwittingly he asks Monika if Mister Zycinski has arrived.
"You mean Zhishinski, " she says, sighing.
I sneak past reception and follow Tom across pavements where the recent snowfall has turned to ice. We go to a quaint little bistro where the waiter impresses us by taking our complicated order for starters and main courses wthout the aid of a notebook. I'm about to remark upon this amazing feat of memory when he returns to to the table and taps me on the shoulder.
"Sorry did you say you wanted the mussels?"
It kind of ruined it, really.
