Rich Minx

The other day I was driving along, minding my own business, when the following ad came on the radio:

“We’re announcing some great deals at [local electronics store] but this information is embargoed till 11.55am.”

It took a moment to sink in. So… basically what they’re telling me is that they have something to tell me, but they can’t tell me. Plus, it was already after midday so I wasn’t optimistic about ever hearing the news, which was likely to be some crappy deal on something I didn’t need anyway.

Next I’ll be getting ‘embargoed’ Viagra spam in my inbox.

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The other night was a special occasion and I went out to dinner at a swanky restaurant, which is a bit of a rarity and something I never quite get used to. I mean, it’s nice eating lots of courses of great food and sipping silky wine, but I never lose the feeling that I’m about 12 years old and an impostor in these sorts of establishments.  The feeling is exacerbated when the waiter:

1) Flicks open my serviette and glides it onto my lap. I mean, I don’t have the strongest arms in the world but I probably could’ve managed that myself.
2) Places 20 knives, forks and spoons in front of me. How long am I going to be sitting there?
3) Pours an inch of Cabernet into my glass and waits expectantly for the usual glass swirling/sniffing/palate-rolling behaviour that is meant to ensue.
4) Hands me a menu in Latin. ‘A filet of Beef nestled upon a Symphony of Fluffed agria potatoes placed Strategically alongside a Handsome row of Beans’ etc.
5) Retrieves my coat at the end of the meal and pauses as I grow 10 arms and struggle into it, slightly blearily after too many Cabernets and 21 courses including, and I quote, ‘Variations on a Theme of chocolate’. Mmm.

Not to mention the bill. HOW much?! I’m on toast for the rest of the week.

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