I am sitting in the Kolding Caffe and sipping my drink when two gentlemen in their mid-fifties walk in. The best of Zagreb, as it were. Dressed in fine suits and wearing fancy ties, they look around quite carefully. Several tables are free, which makes their choice rather difficult. In the end, they select a table not far from mine, but both of them hang their precious coats on a hanger right next to my chair. They apologize for the inconvenience, too. After a while, one of them returns to fetch something from his coat. “Old age,” he comments and apologizes again. After a while, he returns again and starts fumbling through his coat pockets one more time. “Old age, old age,” he grumbles and bows toward me. “No, nooo,” I plead at last. He keeps quiet, though. It does not cross his mind that I am about ten years his senior. When they leave, the forgetful gentleman wishes me a good day and bows toward me apologetically for the last time.