The shoe store

Listening to a lecture on Franz Kafka, I drifted off into reminiscences of the time I spent working in a shoe store. There were some characters: the second generation Pole whose only remaining outward signs of polishness were his blonde hair, and much-parodied tendency to pronounce 'a' like a 'u', as in 'Buttersea Bomber!' (his oft-repeated refrain).
Our assistant manager, part Moroccan, maintained a reassuring serenity, punctuated by moments of anger or jollity. His physique was notable for its slightly bandy legs (such as one might find on a cowboy).