A Comfy Kind Of Restless

Hi!

What have you been up to this Valentine’s Wednesday??  

I divided a sizeable chunk of my day between the school run/childcare and making a large card for Hubby from the three of us 🙂 nothing like a bit of cutting, sticking and lettering on a windy, wintry day!

My less-than-happy couple from the story celebrated in a restaurant.  Here are parts one and two if you don’t know to whom I refer 😉

Exhausted  Gild  Mycelium Afraid  Phyllite  Redirect  Jukebox  Penguin  Edible

Ollie was exhausted.

He stared across at his wife, in her best dress, and couldn’t think of a tactful (or foolproof) way to gild his words so he could cry off early that night.

Valentine’s Day.  What a crock of poop.

He hadn’t ever wanted to set foot in this namby-pamby restaurant, with its stuck up clientele; but Bridget had dropped hints the size of cannonballs for about a year now.  And then had just gone ahead and booked it as ‘his’ present.

Ollie sighed.

The man by the window was really getting drunk on whatever overpriced nonsense was in his glass, and had a lot to say about topical news stories.  Having tired of his declarations about Brexit, the buffoon rounded on women:

“…their hyphae of hate, spreading their treacherous fungus; mats of mycelium laid out – at first like a welcome, but soon as a trap!  No wonder men are afraid to breathe around them these days!”  His male companion chuckled encouragingly “’if I want pressure and cleavage’ I said to her ’I’ll stay home and stare at my phyllite floor tiles…!’”  More ‘old boys’ laughter.

Ollie looked across at his wife again.  “Are you sure you want to eat here?” he asked.

“Yes!” she hissed (rather too forcefully, for her husband’s liking)

“Ok.  Well, I just can’t see anything on the menu I like…” said Ollie.

“You like seafood.”

“Yes, but not at these prices…”

“I thought this was worth a bit of a splurge! It’s been 15 years!”

“I know, honey, and it is…it’s just…  Well.  Lobster on a Wednesday?  Really?”

The look she gave him made Ollie go the way of the clam.

Later, in their local pub, in an attempt to redirect his mutinous thoughts; he went over to the jukebox and tried in vain to find ‘their’ song.  He longed to get back to the sofa and snaffle the last Penguin in the tin.  Red ones were always the best.

A damn sight more edible than that ‘gourmet’ rubbish he’d been forced to pick at earlier, anyway…

[Pic is from here]

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