Adjacent to our office is a small business dedicated to producing magazines about France and Australia. Its employees have been in about a year and they are, with a couple of exceptions, a snooty mannerless bunch who park their cars inconsiderately.
One swarthy chap in particular sometimes strolls about the lanes of a lunchtime, so twice or thrice I have passed him as he walks uphill and I down or vice versa. On each occasion I have arranged my face into suitable nods and greeting-grimaces, even preparing an “Afternoon” or a “Lovely out, isn’t it?”. And on each occasion he has completely blanked me, eyes fixed on the ground as if we were passing in Piccadilly Circus rather than a narrow country lane in the middle of nowhere.
I can only think that he’s a Londoner. At any rate he has no grasp at all of the unwritten but clear rule of Fleeting Greeting: you should always acknowledge a passer-by when it would be more absurd not to do so.