The scene

Picture the scene. Mrs E. and I are lying next to the Jordan in a delightful place nicknamed 'Rob Roy'. hardly anyone around. The young lady running the place made us welcome, said help yourself to coffee, please wash up afterward. We settle down with a coffee and books quietly listening to the children playing in the river and the sound of the wind in the trees.

Then, from nowhere, two large motorbikes roll into the compound, with exhausts burbling. The leather clad riders carefully back the bikes into our shaded area and bring them onto the carpet. We had to move.

They removed the helmets and the leathers and Mrs E. speaks.

"You're from Tel-Aviv, aren't you?"

"Yes.. how did you know".

"Because you're crass and insensitive."