No sense in putting off the inevitable, you say to yourself, as you emerge from the alcove. Two stern-looking palace guards glare at you.
"'Ere now," one frowns, "Are ye with the tour group, then?"
You stare at him in helpless confusion.
"Bloody tourists," grumbles the other. "Always wanderin' off to 'mingle with the locals'," he mimics, in what he no doubt believes to be a devastatingly accurate American accent.
"C'mon, then," says the first guard, gesturing. "We'll see if we can't get you back with yer people."