All of a sudden he began to wonder why they called him The Dutchman…
In theory, this was not a difficult thing to figure out. After all, we was from the Netherlands. Groningen, to be exact. However, this seemed like a pretty flimsy line of reasoning to him. The average population hovers around 190,000 people. Give or take.
What makes him special enough to be considered “The Dutchman”? Not just a Dutchman, mind you. But The Dutchman?
The definitive nature of the article, he had to concede, had put him in a bit of a state.
A sip of gin taken from a metal flask did little to slow this particular train of thought. Though, of course, he was quick to note the potential for etymological irony of his actions before returning the full weight of his intellect onto the matter at hand.
Perhaps, he thought to himself, it was a simple as this: he was, in his limited social circle, the only person emanating from the Netherlands, and therefore the only logical choice for being called THE Dutchman. It has nothing to do, then, with his homeland and more to do with the lack of worldliness of his fellow man.
“In Groningen, we are ALL the Dutchmen!”, he said out loud, though there was no one to hear his epiphany.
And with the moment of introspection having passed without incident, the Dutchman moved on to other, more important matters.
He checked his watch, impatiently.
‘The Swede was taking forever to get here’, he thought.
Pryorball. 