Today I managed two good deeds. A guy parked near me asked was I local, and did I know of a Chinese massage therapist who was indeed not Chinese. Turns out I don’t. But my trusty iPhone was aware of the ethnic conundrum. Bizarrely he wanted a treatment and decided to drive from Antrim rather than making a phone call to see if he had a free appointment. Although his passing remark that he was looking for a white Chinese masseur not an Asian one left me slightly conflicted.
My other good deed, was to ask this elderly lady if the hat on my seat was hers, wasn’t hers. It was her hat free friend’s.
Good deeds are fun.
When you walk around London, occasionally you’ll see a blue plaque adorning the outside wall of a house, with the name of someone famous who lived there. It’s normally someone whose books you’re meant to have read (but haven’t), a sporting legend, or the inventor of something useful like wasp repellant. You’ll pause for a moment, and then walk on, stunned into silence at how little it means to you today. At best, you’ll wonder what the house costs - probably about 5 quid a hundred years ago, whereas now, it can only be afforded by about 5 people on earth.
Hamburg, like other German cities, has a different form of memorial for its residents, and it certainly gives you more to think about:
Dotted along every street are small brass plaques embedded in the