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The chic restaurant’s ebony wood work, taupe suede upholstery and smooth jazz soundtrack had hypnotized me into an urban languor that was, not so long ago, a comfortable state of being.
I might have lingered in that happy trance if an ambush of metropolitan snobbery from across the table hadn’t snapped me back to reality. All of a sudden I was defending the honour of my grassy roots and the small town where I’ve lived for the past 10 years.
“He seems like such a bright boy,” the woman said, almost quizzically, in a condescending tone that made me squirm in my Spanx.