Today I told Georgina that she ought to write about escaping out of Hungary in 1956 and added that it was a really interesting story.
She was contemplating the vastness of the grilled bacon and tomato toasted sandwich she had ordered and she didn't really reply so I repeated the bit about it being an interesting story - a truly interesting one.
Finally she observed that I was always trying to get people to write about themselves and wasn't it only a few weeks back I was putting pressure on a ninety two year old to start indie-publishing.
`Most people,' she said firmly, `Are not especially good at writing - and anyhow you're forgetting that English isn't my first language.'
Georgina can be irritating at times. She speaks perfect English with an accent that is distinctly Australian what's more so when she starts claiming her Hungarian mother tongue it can be somewhat trying.
`People write about stuff that's much less interesting,' I persisted.
She told me that was all very well but her children couldn't be less interested and in fact at times seemed embarrassed by her exotic past - who wants a refugee for a parent?
I said that maybe her grandchildren would be interested, and if not, the generation after them almost certainly would be, especially if she had some good photographs.
She gave me a withering look, `When you're escaping from the Russians you don't stop to find your photograph album,' she said.
We finished our lunch in semi-silence.
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