OK, I will try to tell a true story.
I've mentioned before that I am an Essex boy.

I grew up on a council estate in the late 70's early 80's.

We didn't have much money, we didn't have a particularly worldy view.

But my parents tried, bless em, they tried. They wanted to better themselves.

And to be fair, they succeeded. They did well for themselves.

But this often caused problems with my common as muck, working class, bread and dripping Grandparents.

Never was this more true than when my parents decided that a family treat was in order.

They took us all, me, my brother, my Nan, my Grandad out to dinner.

To a Harvester (don't laugh, in early 80's Essex, these were a luxury).

We looked at the menu, and Grandad, seeing himself as the head of the family, took it upon himself to order.

He went up to the bar, he started speaking. Then suddenly, it went a bit odd.

We couldn't tell what was going on, but the waitress looked shocked. And then, out of the blue...

...she slapped him round the face...

He came back to our table, furious, and we asked what happened.

He said he didn't know, he'd started ordering our food...and she'd gone mental.

My Nan was having none of it, so went to speak to the waitress.

She came back with a face like thunder.

'You dirty old man' she said, 'No wonder she slapped you, she said you asked her for a quicky'...

and the penny dropped.

'Um...Granddad', I said, 'I think you'll find it's pronounced quiche'



























OK, so I lied. I can't think of a way to tell a true story this week.
( scarpe We Stole Bikes, Thu 5 Mar 2009, 13:59, Reply)