I might have been a little unkind about my canteen in the past. I might have suggested that they were a raving pack of incompetents, unfit to serve swill to swine and unable to fathom the complexities of an 80s cash register. They’ve tried to kill me with brillo pads in the mousaka and coffee with a mean temperature slightly above the surface of the sun. The sum total of offences to dining that these people have delivered are too numerous to list. But this morning’s effort is worthy of mention.
I asked for a sandwich and as catering lady went for the bread, she wiped her nose on her gloved hand. I listed the ingredients that I wanted, for the second time, and finished off with, “And go easy on the swine flu.” Her response is illuminating about her thought processes and alarming for my survival chances.
She came back with, “Ahhh, I don’t believe any of that stuff. It’s in your genes. It’s got nothing to do with all o’ this hygiene rubbish. You either get it or you don’t.”
Appalled but unsurprised, I said, “So that whole germ theory revolution thing was all a bit of a beat-up, was it?”
She cleverly puts a stop to my petty quibbling with, “I thought you didn’t want salt.”
I’ve decided that whenever a conversation isn't going my way, I’m going to throw out a baffling non-sequitur and then wipe my nose on my hand. It stunned me, so I don't see why it shouldn't work elsewhere.
The dishes are done, man.
No comments:
Post a Comment