Sometimes, some things and some people seem strangely 'out of place', as if they 'just don't belong', and thus it seemed to one man yesterday, as he and his wife took a motorbike ride into the countryside, on their way to a river where they hoped they might catch some oysters.
The man in question, Moys Kenwood, 56, was the pillion passenger as his wife hurtled down gravel paths, across earthy surfaces, along sandy tracks, and through muddy quagmires, at speeds that were, at all times, dangerously unsafe compared to the surfaces being traversed.
Presently, they reached The Middle of Nowhere.
Up ahead, they spotted a lone figure, sitting astraddle a motorbike, which was parked up at the edge of the narrow track.
As they slowed to allow for its presence, they could see it was a man dressed very smartly in a grey 'business' suit with a white shirt and a charcoal grey tie.
In this hinterland, farming environment, something smelt 'fishy'.
This man was, very obviously, 'a fish out of water'. He just 'didn't belong'. Despite the fact that he was not wearing a bowler hat, nor carrying an umbrella, and did not have a folded copy of The Financial Times under his arm, something was amiss.
Said Kenwood:
"It was odd. In this remote place, in roasting, midday heat, was this bloke in a suit, with a briefcase, sitting on a stationary motorbike. He was bending forward to look into one of his mirrors, whilst using a pair of tweezers to remove hairs from his face, as southeast Asian men seem to enjoy doing."
Kenwood's mind was quickly alert, 'on the offensive', and trying to fathom 'what was wrong with this picture'.
Perhaps this man had taken a wrong turning on his way to his place of employment at a Merchant Bank, although this didn't seem likely, as there aren't many such organisations in these parts.
Maybe he had been on his way to a Crown Court appearance, and got nervous? Nah.
Could the Kenwoods have happened upon a drug deal which was about to take place? The suit, however, could easily arouse the suspicions of the local constabulary, if one had existed.
Was it too much to believe that the man was simply a fan of wearing Savile Row-type finery in the blistering heat of the Cambodian countryside?
And then the moment was gone, as the Kenwoods rounded the next bend, and a huge red, mud-covered tractor bore down on them head-on, and threatened to crush them into oblivion.
