Grumpy Old Men

I sat in the tiny cafe being bombarded with questions from the young waitress: "not too hot for you inside? Are you comfortable at this table? Are you eating today? Do you want a little jug of milk with your coffee? Would you like hot or cold milk?" I answered politely to each question. The manageress, a stern-faced, bustling woman in her late fifties said to me,
  "So many questions isn't there! Must make some of the customers annoyed... We get that Bob Geldof comin' in 'ere quite a lot and the uvver day our young waitriss was askin' 'im wot 'e wanted and he juss snapped at 'er, 'For Christ's sake will you just go away!' She came back 'ere croiyin' 'er eyes out, poor lamb. Ooh, it was awful".

My young waitress was now serving a man, old enough to be her father, who had just ordered lunch at the counter, "Orright, my dullin', where you sittin' then? Oil bring it right out for yoh". Just then, a tall man in his mid-sixties stepped inside, bearing a small metal teapot and a snarl.
   "I think I've been short-changed with the hot water. There's only enough water in here for one cup of tea ... I mean to say, how much does hot water cost, for god's sake?" The young waitress, flustered, said, "Well, I certainly did not make that. It was my boss. She made it. It's not good enough, is it? Give it to me an' oil fill it up for yoh".

 As I left the cafe, I passed two delivery men standing, smoking, by their parked truck in the village square. One said to the other, "An' I says to 'im, if you don't like it you can fuck right off. Never got back to me, eever".




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