"My gravy is too brown" and other highlights...

Saturday night at work wasn't very pleasant, in fact it was decidedly unpleasant. Inevitably I ended up in a very dark place after the madness was over, a very dark and lonely place filled only with pain and swearing and distant voices.

I'm not speaking in overly dramatic metaphors by the way. I had forgotten to leave a light on when I left for work that afternoon and the house was in complete darkness when I got home. The phone was ringing as I entered my darkened abode and in my rush to answer it I tripped and banged my knee hence the swearing and the distant voice of LMM asking me, somewhat ironically, if I was okay as she hadn't heard from me all evening. You see this is what happens when I have to work past midnight. It was the perfect end to a very frustrating evening.

Don't rock the boat...
...don't tip the waiter over (the edge)

By frustrating I really mean eye gougingly awful. It was the sort of night that made me want to pull my own scrotum off and stuff it down the throat of the next mouth breather that even attempted to bother me with some spurious grievance or other.

"My gravy is too brown", being one of the highlights of the night. One really has to fight the urge to beat people with their own coats sometimes. "My gravy is too brown?" My ass is too big but we all have our crosses to bear. Still, that was was just a minor blip in comparison to the major ball ache that was to follow.

For example there was the man who arrived a half hour late for his 6pm booking complete with wife and elderly in-laws and then complained about us keeping him late for the concert he was going to after dinner. Well he probably shouldn't have fucking ordered sweets and coffee at half seven if he needed to be on the other side of town for eight o'fucking clock now should he? The total ass hat wet himself in the worst way with lots of shouting and drama. You could literally see the respect and love drain away from his wife and in-laws as he jab jabbed away with his pointy finger whilst refusing to let anyone else speak. Me included, which was annoying.

You see he was going to the thee-ah-ter, not to be confused with the theatre you understand where normal people, free from the difficulty of having a set of plums in their mouths, might go.

"We are going to a show in the thee-ah-ter you know....", he roared.

"Oh re-ah-ley!" I was tempted to reply but didn't as I didn't want to fuel his chagrin any further.

But his constant, and I mean constant like in every sentence, use of the word thee-ah-ter was really getting on my goat. He said it like it was a magical place that only wonderful people like he and his family would go. And every time he said it his stubby little nose was poked into the air in a dramatic swoosh.

He then whinged on about Pops (his father in-law) not having time to enjoy his pudding having had to wait a torturous ten minutes for it to arrive. Ten minutes? I wouldn't mind but the kitchen were flat out and working like Trojans. But his language was tweaking my nipples something shocking.

Pudding?

Thee-ah-ter?

Pops?

He was like a character from a Billy Bunter novel. I bet drives a motor car and enjoys luncheon and finishes each evening off with supper. Bleurgh!

He became almost catatonic as he tried to pay his bill. He was paying by credit card but the one credit card machine that we have was in use, by me. And each payment takes a few minutes and this was winding him up. I could see him hovering from the corner of my eye. I cant make the machine go any quicker and all the other guests had requested their bills before him. So he had to wait.

"Is there any chance I can pay my bill?", he blustered as I returned to the register.

"Ah yes, you are going to the thee-ah-ter sir aren't you?" I love stating the obvious.

If looks could kill I'd have been six foot under. "Take my card." And he shoved the golden card into my hand with more force than was really needed.

Asshole.

He made his own cross and chose to carry it himself by being late and booking into a restaurant in the wrong side of town from where he really needed to be. His woe is me attitude and sense of victimhood should have been recorded and set to music - something like Adagio for Strings, you know from Willem Defoe's death scene in Platoon. And if you think that's over the top you should have seen this guy lose it.

Wa-ahn-ker.