“Yes, why you haz two of zem?”

Why must people speak to me?

Seriously, why?

I mean outside of the normal waiter-guest relationship there should be an understanding that we just don't talk to each other. Of course one has to grease the wheels of our temporary relationship with pointless small talk and mentions of the weather. I understand, nay, I welcome this as part of my job but lets keep it clean eh. Lets keep it clean, not weird, and free from the sort of subject matter that has me reaching for the panic button. Also all conversation in the bathrooms is inappropriate. I don't mind a polite nod of the head as we pass by but there will be no engaging in chit or indeed chat.

Last week was a queer one for inappropriate utterances and dimwitted discourse from the guests.

It started with a woman on Wednesday night. She was with her chap and her kids. They were all very beautiful, I assume being the king of Bahrain or wherever they were from helps keep the skin lovely and the nails manicured. Now they were lovely people, they had a good line in chit chat - weather, things to do in Belfast other than get bladdered, how far is it to Dublin - the normal things people ask when visiting Belfast.

These were monied folk, I could literally smell the dollars, yen, sterling and to a lesser extent euros wafting from their change purses and wallets. Clearly I decided early that I would put the effort in and maybe they would want to hire me as their personal butler/man servant. I could live that life, I could live that life and then some. "Pack my bag Manuel....we're going to Dubai for the weekend." Oh yes, I could coco with that for damn sure.

Anyhoo it had all been bright and breezy and as the kids played with their gold plated Nintendo Box Boy games things and I poured the wine.

"Manuel!", shouted the lady of the table as if I was pouring wine directly on to her garish Versace jeans.

I nearly pooped but upon realising I was not actually doing anything wrong and it was just a case of her wanting to ask me something I unpinched my sphincter.

"Manuel, what is your favourite name for a girl?"

Eh? What was this all about? I wouldn't normally entertain such a line of questioning but not wanting to anger my future employers I thought I had better play along and gave her Little Miss Manuel's name as an answer. I smiled at her, she smiled back. Was I supposed to say something else? It felt like I was somebody to follow this up with something else. But I said nothing and just waited for her to speak. She didn't say anything, pondered for a bit and then asked me for a bottle of sparkling water.

What the what was that all about? She not only changed the conversation in a heartbeat but actually stopped talking to me after I answered. Sake.

An hour or two later and they were leaving. She still hadn't said as much as two words or looked at me directly since the girls name incident. All very odd. I said goodbye and waved at the kids and waved at my new career as man servant and butler to a fancy Middle Eastern businessman and his beautiful family. And then it got weird.

Beckoning me over as he stopped beside the door the man of the table slipped a twenty quid note into my sweaty paw. I did the closed eye thank you thing and assumed that was it.  But getting close to my smelly ear (infection that wont go away) he whispered,

"You were supposed to ask her why she wanted to know your favourite girls name"

"I was?"

"She's pregnant you see"

What the what? I despair. It was all just an elaborate way of her telling me she was up the Damien? That was pretty weird. All of it.

But then it was Thursday. I was in the bathrooms checking on supplies and ensuring that the spot dog bite on my chin hadn't become an unbearable carbuncle. One doesn't want to frighten the guests with chin nasties. In walked a young chap, he looked like a touristy type. He was in the care of Waiter Chum the Younger. He did his business and washed his hands, quite a refreshing sight I must say. You'd be shocked how many people don't wash their hands after visits to the dirty little town of Crotchville.

I was just leaving the bathroom, I had the door open, when young Boris calls me over.

Ugh!

"Yes sir?", or boy who is young enough to be my son.

"Why you has two of zese things....how you calls zem? Tips? Are zey the tips?"

He was pointing at the taps.

"Two of them? Eh?"

"Yes, why you haz two of zem? In my country we just haz the ones of zem? But why you haz two?"

Fearing that this was either going to turn into a diplomatic incident or a half hour discussion, with me having to say everything twice, on the wonder that is the Irish plumbing system. I decided that this needed nipped in the bud. I was in the mood for neither and just told him it was traditional, that they were old sinks. Sake.

"Ah, zat makes the sense then" says Boris as he poked at the taps with the inquisitiveness of a scene of crimes officer. I was round at his table ten minutes later and he was busy drawing his girlfriend a diagram of the taps. Oh that's good times right there.

People shouldn't talk to me, unless it's about the weather or what plans you have for the rest of the night.