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Updated: August 27, 2024
"Would you like some tea, Mr Weener?" asked Constance. "Tea! He looks like a secret cocacola guzzler to me! Are you an American Mr Uh?" Mama demanded fiercely, deigning for the first time to address me. "I was born in California, Mrs Thario," I assured her. "Pity. Pity. Damned shame," she muttered.
Stay where you are, Lew," he bellowed into the unresponsive loudspeaker. "Jake White. Jake White's in four. Said I'd buy him a drink afterwards. Joke. He's a cocacola boy. Why can't you stay inside, Jake? Why can't you stay put?"
"No wellconducted establishment, Mr Weener, is without chutney, curry or worcestershire." The insularity of the English is incredible. I have not tasted cocacola, hotdogs, or had a bottle of ketchup for more than a year, but I don't complain. The Grass is in the Schelde estuary, almost within sight of the English coast. I got nothing written on my history today.
The substitution of English, Turkish, Egyptian or Russian cigarettes for good old Camels or Luckies; the impossibility of buying a bottle of cocacola at any price; the disappearance of the solacing wad of chewinggum; the pulsing downbeat of a hot band these were the first things whose loss was noticed.
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