I'm not talking about age. We're the same age, give or take nine months (I was apparently such a cute baby that my auntie wanted one; she got him). I'm talking about where our heads were at the time.
This was Coventry. He owns a security business (EMK Events Ltd for ALL your crowd control needs); I'm a historian. He was here on business, as his company are providing the crowd safety for a major event in the city. I'm there with a camera to photograph the scenery for Beautiful Britain.
"That pub's Victorian." I tell him, as we stroll along a busy street. My head is turning back and forth like I'm watching a tennis match, looking at the buildings on one side of the street and comparing them to the other.
He nods, "I wouldn't like to take their business. It's a bit rough down here." He would. He'd work out a strategy to deal with the rough customers. He's always telling me that he wouldn't get involved with such and such a venue because of its troublesome clientele. Then a month or so later, there is no troublesome clientele, because his security officers are ensuring it. "And that's a bit of a dive."
"I don't think Hitler agreed with you." I opine, still comparing buildings. On one side of the street, it's all 19th and early 20th century architecture. On the other side, the entire terrace is that bland and frankly awful 1960s concrete block style. But this IS Coventry, ground zero for Moonlight Sonata on November 14th 1940. A beautiful name for the most devastating single night, on a single city, of the Blitz. "He left that whole side standing."
"Yeah." said my cousin, in a tone of voice which suggested that was yet another travesty to lay at the door of the Third Reich. "He did."
I just love how two people, walking along the same street, have such different perspectives on what they see. It makes for some interesting conversations.