Allington

For breakfast I am brought a plate of cut fruit and some freshly baked hot cross buns.  It is served by a portly black gentleman.  He wears a beige branded polo-shirt and long trousers.  I have just been swimming and stand, dripping on the veranda.  I try to lean with nonchalance against a sliding door.  It gives way and I stumble.  He kindly does not notice and, after a moment of suspicion, answers my question.  He tells me he thinks it might be after his grandfather whom he never met because he died very young.  He was also born on the larger neighbouring island but has worked for my employer for twenty-seven years.

(Googling the name, I could only find reference to a small village situated alongside the A20 road west of Maidstone in Kent.  Whether or not this is connected, I can only speculate.)