A man from the past.

I ventured out of the capital and met a man from the past.

Far down in Surrey, more Reigate than Croydon, proper safe Tory seat Surrey, leafy suburbia-sorted pension-two cars in the carport-mortgage paid off-white skin Surrey, an elderly gentleman who rather resembled Prince Philip, woke up from his anaesthetic. On duty in the recovery room that day was, apart from myself, an Indian, two Filipinos and one black African.

“You alright?” I asked the man, writing down the last observation displayed on the monitor above.
“Fine, thank you very much,” said the man, peering around the room.  I offered him some water.
“Oh, thanks!”  He happily took the cup. “It seems to me like we are the only Anglo-Saxons in here today!”, he said cheerily before swallowing down several mouthfuls, expressing a face of bliss and happiness.
“Emr.. Yes… Maybe… I suppose…” I mumbled. I assumed that “Anglo-Saxons” pretty much translates to “West-Europeans”, but I never really quite understood the term. It always makes me think of Monthy Python and a not very good English hard rock band, rather than important elements of British history, famous battles or certain groups of people. Also, the topic of race and colour made me, like so many public service staff on duty, slightly nervous, overly careful and generally poo faced.

My patient, however, was not inhibited by any such modern nonsense.
“Tell me,” he said, eyes squinting as he had a good look at my fellow colleagues, “are they all from the colonies?”