Plaza Serrano. I invite these guys looking for a seat to join us. One of them, mid twenties, tall, blond, impeccably dressed (subtle fifties stylings – a great cardy) is quite possibly the most beautiful man I have ever encountered. He is also an accountant and, though I run the risk of being clichéd as well as judgemental and envious, he was in possession of what can only be described as the David Beckham effect. He’s beautiful, but just a bit dull. (Though in being so I can thank him in no small regard for preserving the sovereignty of my heterosexuality). Throughout our short exchange I truly had to fight the temptation to say; ‘please don’t speak. I just want to look at you’. Nezih breaks the ice asking them if they are from Sweden. I don’t look at him for fear of laughing. They are quite simply too Swedish for the question. As Nezih said later, the guy would be a Nazi’s wet dream….His poor brother, largely as absent from this anecdote as he was from my attention at the time, is sat beside him. A good enough looking chap in all other contexts. He’s as tall and as blond as his sibling but comparatively (and it is impossible not to compare) a bit lanky with wonky teeth and acned skin. (Eyes upward. I'm sorry) Franky he looked as hypnotised by his brother as I imagine we probably did. I couldn’t help noting that he (the brother) was pursuing a career in law and thinking, by extension, that he must have needed to get at least one thing up on his brother in life.