We've got a visitor, a young gent in his early twenties who speaks in the plummy tones of the Home Counties. He fancies a tasty repast from our local Spice House. Mmm, ra-ther.
He enters the fast food emporium and the queue turns its head to gaze upon his tall, willowy figure. Floppy blonde hair sweeps over his blue eyes and he nonchalantly pushes it back and smiles at the crowd.
Everyone turns away again except four young maidens who keep their keen eyes trained on him.
"That's a nice tap," says one.
"Why, thank you," he intones, brushing his long fingers over the white and navy cricket jumper he sports.
"Ur you posh?" asks another girl.
"Er, not sure," he smiles.
"Ur you a nice boy? Eh?" and this time there's a hint of a threat in the voice.
"Sure, sure, I'm nice," he says and looks away.
"Gie's money then. Or Ah'll fly-kick ye."