Orange Hair

In Dublin, I was keen to visit bustling Grafton Street because it has so often been mentioned by Irish authors. There we stood, listening to a busker giving an excellent rendition of 'Zombie'.

I became vaguely aware of a bunch of boys, aged maybe twelve to thirteen, and all wearing yellow tee shirts - probably a school trip. They seemed excited about something and were talking animatedly to each other in a foreign language which might have been Dutch. I didn't take much notice until I realised the thing they were excited about was me.

'Excuse me, excuse me.'

'Yes?'

'Our teachers gave us tasks.'

'Yes?'

'They said we must take five pictures of ourselves together with people with orange hair. And you have...'

I opened my mouth to say, 'But I don't have orange hair!'

Yet what was the point? An entire class of Dutch boys thought I did. 

At this point, Nigel stepped in and said, 'Keep looking!'  And ushered me on. 

I kinda regret now not helping the gawky little chaps on their awkward quest.

But even more, I regret not looking in the window of the nearby coffee shop. I would easily have been able to spot the boys' teachers. 

They would have been the ones laughing their socks off.