‘Seriously, a Little Chef?’ I ask, as I reluctantly
indicate and look to move across the traffic.
‘You haven’t had two children.’ Bats back my wife. I’m
tempted to pick her up on the semantics of the statement but she trumps me by
adding. ‘My bladder isn’t what it was.’
I’m not allowed to put the company car through an
auto-wash any longer, so I’m guessing piss-stains on seats have to be manually
rinsed too. It’s the reason I don’t like taking pensioners to view retirement
flats in my motor. I park as quickly as you can without a handbrake turn.
‘God, look at the paintwork.’ I tell my wife as she moves
as quickly as she’s done since the school hurdles race she always tells me
about. She doesn’t seem to be interested in rotting woodwork and my comment
about dilapidations at the end of the lease term, so I grab the door she’s just
entered before it bangs in my face. It’s a step back in time.
‘Table for one?’ Asks the spotty girl with an assistant
manager badge pinned to her breast. Great. I look like the sort of saddo loner
who dines here regularly I think, as I correct her. She looks towards the car
park suspiciously then ushers me to a table in the corner, close to the grill
station where a brace of bored-looking lads are scraping disinterestedly at an
unseen spillage on the hotplate. It could be the early seventies and I could be
with my father on an access day out, neither of which I want reminding of.
‘She thought I was on my own.’ I tell my wife when she
joins me after a lengthy wait, as I perused the menu and wondered what, other
than the prices, had changed in the last thirty years?
‘The loos are a bit tired.’ Warns my wife, as I tell her
what I’m having, leaving the knickerbocker glory option until after the
defrosted burger has arrived. You have to take your time strolling down memory
lane.
‘I have something in common with this place.’ I tell her
as I rise to visit the toilets. She looks quizzically as I repeat the a bit
tired line and the assistant manager – shouldn’t that be manageress? –
moves towards our table.
As I bowl through the door, noticing more peeling
paintwork, but a proudly displayed hygiene award certificate in a tarnished
frame, a man in too short trousers and a bright jumper is tugging on the wall
mounted vending machine urgently.
He looks up startled, face going as crimson as his
sweater, then hurries out without washing his hands.
Business done, I stand at the basin and try to work out
which product he wouldn’t buy from the chemist, the red-faced man just
purchased. A toss-up between the toothpaste and brush kit, for those with bad
breath and no girlfriend and the vibrating penis ring for those with…
‘This pace is full of weirdos.’ I tell my wife between
mouthfuls of rubbery beef and greasy fries. She glances round the few occupied
tables, as she nibbles on a Fillet-of-something decidedly fishy. The other
customers are the sort of slack-jawed oddballs who normally flunk credit scores
in the letting department, or ask about DSS tenancies. Is that why we’re here?
Not a warped nostalgia, but a grim insight into the future of a failed
salesperson?
‘Are you a regular customers?’ Quizzes the girl when I
ask for the bill and she points to the till by the door. Not yet, I want to
tell her, as I see the aforementioned knickerbocker glory being served to a fat
woman with an unsettling look of lust and gluttony etched on her face.
‘That was really delicious.’ Announces the elderly couple
ahead of me at the till with no hint of irony. Perhaps it’s me, I think, as I
pay for the meals while my wife goes to the toilet again. Maybe I’ve turned
into the sort of grumbling curmudgeon I detest dealing with when they have to
downsize the family home for a sheltered apartment with not much more surface
area than their next stop - just without the brass handles.
It’s a journey.
---------------
Stop off for the e-book, cheaper than a coffee.
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