He continued to march down the busy road, tapping out a consistent rhythm with his cane until coming to a kebab shop with a faded Union Jack and a surprisingly sharp-looking man behind the counter, his face clean-shaven and his eyes bright.
“Ah, Blevins, here you see the rejuvenating effect of pride in one’s work! How much for one with everything, my good man?”
“Well sir, our strictly vegan option comes to two dollars New Coloradan, and our meat option is three of the same, synthetic of course.”
“Very good, two of the meat ones then.”
“One second.”
The man opened a door labeled ‘kitchen’ and stepped through, presumably in order to reach the kitchen.
Seeing an opening, the assistant piped up.
“Erm, sir?”
“Yes Blevins, what is it?”
“Why is it that we’ve only been doing, well, English-themed things? We are diplomats, are we not? Should we not be sampling a little of the local culture, as it were?”
“Ah, therein lies the fundamental trap of diplomacy! You see, when we immerse ourselves in a culture, we invite the danger of losing ourselves in it!”
He rubbed his chin for a moment.
“I believe in the late 20th century there was a treatise by a diplomat named Viet Nguyen on this very calamity befalling him in America. Yes, yes, rummy good book. Honest capitalist fighting against the perfidious specter of socialism or somesuch. You really should read more widely, Blevins.”
“I- wait, I don’t think that’s-”
“Yes, yes, the fact that we are diplomats is precisely why we cannot afford to lose ourselves. We must stand up with honour and valour for pleasant Ceres, and we cannot do that if we find ourselves practicing the traditions and habits of the Martian rabble!”
At that moment, the mystical door of which nothing is known labeled “Kitchen” swung open, and from it emerged the attendant, carrying two unremarkable kebabs.
“There you are my good man, proper coin of the realm.”
Sir Widdershins placed eight coins on the counter and took the kebabs from the attendant. Seeing no other customers waiting, he decided to strike up a conversation.
“I say, where did you get that lovely flag?”
“Oh, this? It was my great-great-………..great? Uncle’s. He emigrated and started the shop a century ago after a particularly bad decade or two back home, and I’ve just recently moved here to run the shop.”
“Ah, an old family business, then? Jolly good, that.”
The shopkeeper paused for a minute before continuing cautiously.
“Excuse me for asking, but where might you be from? I don’t quite recognize your, erm, vernacular.”
“Wot wot?”
“Erm, sir, I believe he’s asking why, ah, why you talk like that.”
“Why, I’m simply speaking in the way all good Englishmen have for centuries, you know! I’m afraid you didn’t recognize it because most of the Cererians have rather lost the plot.”
“Interesting. I’m from Sheffield, and it’s a new one on me.”
“Why, you- I- oh, blast the whole thing,”
Widdershins shook his head sadly before walking away briskly and boarding a nearby trolley, Blevins lingering for a moment before jogging to catch up.
“HEY! GET BACK HERE! YOU PAID ME IN SHILLINGS!” the kebab merchant yelled as the trolley receded past the throngs of pedestrians.
“You know Blevins, sometimes being the last gentleman in the Solar System can be rather trying.”