Devonne Brown

The expedition would have led us straight to Piccadilly Circus in London, had it not been cancelled due to the protests surrounding the tube and other forms of public transport. It was nigh on impossible to participate in the frivolity Jeanie had planned for today. Her scheduled massage with Nigel was out of the question. Disappointment registered all over her face.

She’d saved for months for the trip to London. She was so ready to do all the tourist things. Here she was, caught up in all the hubbub of the day. At least she would be part of a historic movement. 

Tired of the chanting in the streets, Jeanie chose a pub. Dark green leather booths surrounded tiny dark wood tables. The dark wood shining bar and mirror beckoned. She’d order a pint of cider at the bar, knowing a half pint was more ladylike for a woman by herself in London proper. 

She took a seat by Jock in full Scottish regalia, sporin, sash, and kilt; it might have been the Blackwatch tartan if she’d any idea at all what they were. All she knew it was that it was a dark green with a red and blue plaid running through it. His grey beard and tam were bright against the dark of his jumper, as sweaters were called in Europe. 

“Planning to fight, are ya? Cider drinkers usually are,” said the Jock, and his eyes twinked. He meant to blandish Jeanie with his words. “I respect a woman that knows her mind, and isn’t afraid to use it. Cheers, my dear,” he continued. “What do you think of the nonsense in the streets?”

“I can’t get to Piccadilly to my appointment. I’m very disappointed,” said Jeannie. “I planned this trip for months.”

“You’re an American. You won’t get far with that accent. I can assure you.”