more than circling a chippy's lobby like a vulture before masticating
a battered fish. I love fish. In some ways I'd like to be a penguin,
especially when I'm sitting on a stuffy train with no elbow room, worn
out by the daily grind and listening to the rumblings of my ravenous
stomach. Oh to slide about on ice all day eating fish.
On this occasion my wild, abandoned hopes of fatty bliss were kicked
in the groin. The shop was run by a group of contemptible
adolescents, sulkily going about their business with a clear disdain
for the customers. Not to worry, I thought, it doesn't necessarily
mean the food is bad. The girl took my order without making any eye
contact, her voice a bored monotonous drone. I suspect that even if a
penguin moonwalked in, chirped merrily and ordered cod and chips, her
reaction would be emotionless.
She had false nails, giant acrylic things that could easily poke out
an eye. I've always felt a bit queasy when served food by a French
manicure, imagining the telltale *crunch* as you bite down on a tasty
piece of Haddock.
And then I noticed she only had nine false nails. My appetite has
suffered permanent damage and I may never fully recover from the
trauma. Needless to say I will not be going there again.