remote cards

I am waiting to be served. A paninini, a green tea, a bottle of fruit juice. Guy joins the line behind me with his daughter. Are we going to get sandwiches, she asks. Do you want a sandwich dear, then you grab a sandwich, he tells her cheerfully. The wife strolls up. You want something to eat darling? He asks her. A sandwich perhaps, he gushes. I’ll have a scone, she says, bluntly, in a voice which suggests she might hit him. How about one of those? He points at a mini loaf shaped cake thing. Its got pumpkin seeds and carrots, and he goes on to list the ingredients. A fruit scone, she snaps, in a voice that says I am now looking for a sharp instrument, I suggest you should prepare for death. How about the coffee and walnut cake, he suggests, it looks really good! Why did you drag me along today? She asks him, voice dripping with a life time of woe and burden. He starts to mutter his answer, but for once decides better of it. So, one of those, he points at the fruit scones, and we’ll half it between us love? She rolls her eyes, and a small, black, coffee, she punctuates carefully, in case he starts to list her the drink’s menu, before wandering off to find a table and glare daggers at him the whole time. He remains jovial, and miraculously when he does bring the order to the table he some how manages to get her laughing in the end.

Labels: daughter, fruit scone, glasgow, man, wife