Just a Memory
When she left Hamburg some time ago to come to England, VICKY LANDAU thought well, it won’t be long before I’m back, there’s my dog Rupert and Willi Albrecht from the shipping company, they’re both lovely.
But now Rupert the dog and Willi the shipper are both just a memory. Vicky is still here, established in a cosy flat in London and earning her keep by lucrative modelling jobs.
“Naturally,” said Vicky in her fluent native tongue to Nigel Merry-weather in a London pub, “I shall go back one day, probably when I’ve made my fortune.”
“Could you speak in English,” said Nigel, “as I only speak German like an incoherent Italian in a wine barrel.”
“Oops, you are so funny,” said Vicky.
“Actually,” said Nigel, “I’m dead serious, you’re the most devastating bird I’ve ever met, and I tell you frankly. I’ve got designs on you. Have two more double Scotches,”
“I think,” said Vicky, “that you are trying to get me drunk.”
“I’ll be truthful,” said Nigel, “I’m that kind of rotter.”
“Englishmen,” murmured Vicky, “are fascinating but much too naughty,” And she poured her drink down his shirt front and then conked him with a German candlestick she always carries in her handbag.