Won’t you be my . . . Brit?

My husband and I spent a week in London not too long ago. We toured the city walking to different sites, mostly of my choosing. He reminded me to not walk ahead nor behind but right beside him so we wouldn’t lose each other in the crowds. I agreed.

We pull out from one of the many churches we were looking at that day and I turned to the left and began walking. I was feeling guilty that so much of the site seeing was for solely my benefit, so I linked my arm with my husband’s, leaned over and asked if he wanted to pop over to see that cool building across the street. I hear a British, “Excuse me??” I turned and with a scream realized I had linked with some random Brit who was roughly the same height, distinguished, and looking at me like I was quite daft — all the while still maintaining his stride away from me. I scanned the crowd for my real husband and see that he’s several feet behind me, his hands raised in the “just what the heck are you doing?”gesture.

“I thought we were supposed to stay side by side!” I huffed once we reunited.

“Well, at least if you are going to go home with a stranger you did pick a nice looking one.”

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