Sunday, 25 August 2013

A Table for Two(ish)...


Do you ever have a night out and end up, inadvertently I hasten to add, hearing a total stranger’s conversation without them actually talking to you?
          Last night my husband insisted on taking me out to dinner.  This is quite a phenomenon in all truth.  Usually it’s me insisting he takes me out to dinner.  But last night, he was adamant.  ‘There are some things we need to discuss, Debbie.’  Oh.  Right.
          So there we were, huddled over the tiny table for two, where a candle and flower in a vase jostled for space with the cutlery and napkins.  At the table next to us was a guy I initially mistook for one of Katie Price’s ex-husbands.  Alex Reid.  For those not in the know, Alex Reid is a cage fighter with big biceps and a crooked nose.  Anyway, it wasn’t Alex Reid.  I know that for sure because our table was probably four point five inches in distance from this chap’s table, and his girlfriend was calling him Jason.
          ‘Are you listening to me?’ said Mr V.
          ‘Of course.’  Not.
          ‘So, Mandy, what did yer dad say when yer told ’im you woz goin’ out wiv a bloke of thir’y-one?’ asked Jason.
          Cue screech of laughter from Mandy, followed by a mega flick of hair.  I was nearly whiplashed by blonde extensions.  ‘’E don’t know, does ’e!  I don’t fink ’e would approve much, me bein’ so much younger an’ all that.’
          Mr V: ‘What would you like to eat?’
          Me: (perusing menu) ‘I’ll have...’
          Jason: (perusing menu) ‘What d’yer fancy?’
          Mandy: (peering over menu) ‘You!’
          Mr V: ‘I’m going to have a salad.’
          Me: ‘I’ll have the wilted spinach.’
          Jason: ‘I’m starvin’.  I’m so starvin’ I could eat a bleedin’ ‘orse.’
          Mandy:  ‘Do they do ’orse in ’ere?  Where’s it got ’orse on the menu?’
          Mr V: ‘I’ll have medallions for mains.’
          Me:  ‘I’ll go for the fish.’
          Jason: ‘I’ll ’ave half a cow instead.  I need to keep up me high protein.’
          Mandy: ‘And I’ll ’ave...wot are those smelly pink fings called?’
          I had an overwhelming urge to lean across and reply, ‘Feet.’
          Mr V:  ‘...sell the house at a price I’m not happy about.’
          Me: ‘Mmm.’
          Jason: ‘I go to the jimmm every mornin’.  I like to do press ups.’
          Mandy: ‘You ’ave luvly mussolls.’
          Mr V: ‘...tell the estate agent...’
          Me:  ‘Mmm.’
          Jason:  ‘Would yer like to feel ’em?’
          Mandy:  (a bit breathless) ‘Wot, in ’ere?’
          Mr V:  ‘...buyer’s market, did you know prices are on the up....’
          Me.  ‘Mmm.’
          Jason:  (starting to look very perky)  ‘Which bit d’yer wanna touch?’
          Mandy:  (arching back, chest out, flicking hair all over place) ‘Ooooh!’
          Mr V:  ‘Ah, starters!’
          Me:  (lifting neighbour’s hair extensions off my spinach) ‘Ah, starters!’
          Jason: ‘Well ain’t this a good start!’
          Mandy: ‘Ow dear, there’s some green stuff in me hair.’
          Okay, I made the last two lines up.  Meanwhile Mr V thinks I’ve undersold the house.  Which is quite staggering given he wants top dollar for ours but is quite happy to make offers on other properties at £80,000 less than the asking price!
          However, the conveyancing wheels have been set in motion.  And I for one am keeping my fingers crossed for a smooth and successful house move.  Which reminds me.  A prominent young conveyancing solicitor was on his way to work when he was hit by a bus. Suddenly he found himself at the Pearly Gates facing Saint Peter.  “This has to be a mistake!” exclaimed the solicitor, ‘I’m only 35 and much too young to die!’  St Peter replied, ‘That’s odd.  Based on the number of hours you have billed clients, we thought you had to be at least 105...’

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