Cheesy

Erica and I were sitting in the Bradgate pub. It is in Newton Linford. That is a real place. I think it might be near Newton Birgoland, which is apparently also a real place, but I have a suspicion a schoolfriend made it up, just to make the question, "Ou habites-tu?" that bit more interesting in French Oral lessons. Imagine a grave accent on the "u" of "Ou". I can't be arsed.

So, we decided to order some nachos. We're like that, me and Erica. Sometimes we fancy nachos. These things happen. I went to order.

I waited. And waited. Three staff had a chat about the dishwashing rota. I waited. Eventually, "Can I help you?"

"Can I order some nachos, please?" asked I.

"Sorry, the kitchen's closed," said the chap. Then he looked unsure of himself. He was dithering. This could be our chance. His colleague loudly (and correctly) said, "It's Friday." As if this changed things somehow. Then he took our order. Well, he took my money.

"Do you want a table number?" I asked, helpfully.

"No," he asserted.

Well, you can guess what happened next... or can you? Well, guess again, Mr (or Ms) Smarty Pants. The nachos arrived in good time, to our table and very nice they were too.

Yes, that's not one of my better anecdotes, but it seemed more Ploggy than telling you how a schoolfriend was killed in Iraq last week, which to be frank has kind of dominated my more bubbly anecdotes for the last few days. I'm not going to discuss the merits or anti-merits of war, or the ethics of having women on the front line, but I do know that Jo Dyer was on the front pages of the weekend papers for all the wrong reasons. She took the lead role in the first play I ever directed, and had a fantastic stage presence. People have expressed war sentiments more eloquently than I ever will, and having lost touch with Jo after I left school, I can't claim her as a close friend. But I do know that this feels wrong.

I'm better at writing about pub food, aren't I?