We went to Sainsburys at Streatham Common a few months ago, and decided we'd have a coffee in the café attached to it. Jimmy ordered a Double Espresso - after all it was advertised on the board, and there was a coffee machine. The man behind the counter didn't know what one was, and then served it in a sizeable mug. It wasn't even as if he was a schoolie on his first day in a Saturday job. Just one of those things you just sigh, and move on...
A few minutes later two elderly Italian women and a young boy, perhaps a grandson, came in. The women ordered their coffees, the boy wanted an orange juice. No can do. He could have cocacola or fanta or sh*t or more sh*t. But not orange juice. Or apple juice. Or grapefruit juice. Or cranberry juice. Or any juice. Only chemical-sugar concoctions. This was at Sainsburys...
Later we went for a pre-ballet dinner in the heart of Covent Garden. Lovely restaurant, gorgeous food, nice ambience, serving staff hitting the right balance between attention and peace. We didn't pay much notice to our fellow diners, there was no need. I was vaguely aware of a table to my right. A table for six, but with a spare chair. The five who sat there ranged from 'average' size to plump to one very tall, well-built and proportionately chubby man. They conversed, the odd word or phrase was barely audible at our table.
The sixth person arrived and I was immediately struck by how thin she was, the sort who makes Victoria Beckham look chubby.
Conveniently for the thin one, having missed the moment when her companions ordered, she skipped starter. She had her main course, basically meat and veg, but she left the meat, and the sauce and didn't eat all the veg. She immediately went to the loos and the last we saw of her as we left she was standing by the entrance, explaining to the staff on reception that as she was smoking French cigarettes she didn't want to impose them on her companions(who were sitting in the smoking area). That may be true, of course, but the strong taste of French cigarettes conveniently masks the taste of vomit in the mouth. And it also acts as a convenient excuse for being absent when puddings were being ordered. She looked really dreadful, just skin and bone; that horrible thing with sticky-out neck bits that thin women cultivate. Her hairstyle was expensive, her clothes were not from Oxfam, her perma-tan was well-cultivated. It's conceivable she was a 55 year-old with elements of 35, but my judgement was that she was a 35 year old prematurely aged by decades of starvation. There were members of the corps de ballet who looked obese in comparison.
