So one night last week, not sure which one. I could hazard a guess but it's not really important, maybe it was Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, I dunno. Like I say it doesn't really matter. It was a cold night, the sort you might expect in early January or actually any month before May in this heat forsaken country.
I was pottering with bluferous intent, there was a manager nearby and I was not in the mood to clean out another cupboard for the sake of cleaning out another cupboard. And to be honest if I hear that fucking "If there's time to lean there's time to clean" phrase that they dole out with more smugness than is really necessary once more I will probably swing for one of them...with a chair or a floor brush. Death by irony, heh. A shitty line in smug maxims does not a good manager make. Being able to spot a waiter bluffing like he's doing something, that's what makes a good manager.
So I made it look like I was busy by fiddling with the base of a table.
Anyhoo, with their coffee cup refilled the clipboard warrior beat a hasty retreat back to their lair and I was able to return to my not unpleasant leaning against the wall. One does so enjoy a good lean from time to time.
Obviously my quality lean time was interrupted when one of my colleagues decided it was time I did some work and seated a table of two in my unblemished section. Another one off the Christmas card list. Straightening my shoulders and painting a smile more fake than a pirated DVD bought from a guy in a pub toilet I waddled over to greet them and begin the journey that would hopefully end with the stuffing into my hand of cold hard, folding, cash.
I took one look at them and longed for the quiet satisfaction of cleaning out a cupboard.
He was one of those man mountain types - thick of neck and thin of brain. His tan was from a bottle and his, what are they called biceps? Is that it? Is that what they are, biceps? They were born from insecurity and having spent too much time in the gym in the company of other men. Only a man truly secure with himself can eschew the six-pack in favour of the dough ball. Heh.
His lady companion bore a worrying similar appearance to him. The only difference being her choice of two diamond earrings to his one and a smearing of lipstick. To be fair even her lips looked like they could bench press more than me.
I handed them their menus and opened with my usual gambit of welcoming nonsense and included a comment on the weather. Like I say it was, as we say round these parts, Baltic. I wouldn't have bothered but he was wearing a t-shirt, a skin-tight t-shirt that was about the size of a pair my boxer shorts. This guy was, like I said, huge. This t-shirt with some nonsensical slogan emblazoned over it offered nothing in the way of protection from the elements.
"Weren't you freezing out there in just that t-shirt?" His man nipples could have cut glass. "I mean it's not exactly t-shirt weather." I didn't mean to come across like his mother but his choice of evening attire wasn't great or smart.
He laughed at my suggestion, shrugged his shelf like shoulders and replied in a demeanour that was pretty aggressive saying, 'THE WEATHER? FUCK THE WEATHER. I WUR WHAT I WANT WHEN I WANT? FUCKING WEATHER WAH...FUCK...I'LL SHOW THE WEATHER"
Eh righty ho, there is no comeback to that. He wants to fight the weather. This man with no neck and arms like legs wants to teach the fucking weather a lesson.
I bet he shouts at planes too.
Oh how I longed for the cupboard or anywhere for that matter away from the man who wants to beat up the rain.