remote cards

Supermarket still open late on a Saturday night, city centre. Guy is loading the shelves, wearing the burgundy short of staff colours. He tips cardboard boxes into a metal cage on wheels once he has emptied them. Excuse me, she says from behind him. Takes a moment for him to notice, to turn, do you sell cork screws? She asks it grinning when he turns, a clear subtext - its Saturday night and I’ve got a bottle of wine that needs opening! She is short. Japanese looks, American accent. Hipster style. Flat cap over short dark hair. Tight white jacket. A few inches of bare belly. A line of white knickers above the waist of her blue jeans. She radiates confidence that her friend doesn’t. A pale white girl, pale ginger hair. White t-shirt, white cardigan. Almost hiding behind a shelf until she realises that the shop boy and her friend have gone off looking for the cork screw, and she kind of darts after them with that - I don’t want to be left behind - kind of feel

Labels: american, cork screw, ginger, girls, glasgow, japanese, shop

There are two guys sat in one corner of the coffee house. They both have laptops balanced on their laps, with web cams, sitting side by side. I have to assume they aren’t talking to each other? Because, like, that would be odd. I take a seat down the length of the room, and forget about them. But not long after they have moved, so that they are both behind me. One at one end of a handful of tables, one a the other end. It turns out they are Americans, trying to use the WiFi in the place, trying to get the web cameras up and running, and failing. “You got anything,” one calls out to the other, his voice drawling. The other just shakes his head, the first mutters, “So weird.”

Labels: american, coffee, fail, glasgow, web cam

TGIF round the corner has a French waiter. He has an adorable accent and a slightly haggard look as he whips around with his black apron and his half smile. "Alabama Slammer?" "Jack Daniels Flat Iron Steak?" (Jaaaaacques Danielles..?)
The French guest however is perturbed. He leans forward, a darkness in his round features. "What is a Frenchman doing in this place?" he whispers in a tone of horrified sympathy normally reserved for Dickensian pauper scenes. An American Sports Pub so far from home! Au revoir Filet Mignon, bonjour rumpsteak tristesse! The waiter responds in an embarassed flurry of French.
"I have been here for six months", he explains. "No no, I still cannot speak their language."
The French guest leans back, relieved. "Ah. I will take les potato skins."

Labels: american, food, french