Kylie's on the television singing live. She's not miming. We know this because the first thing she does is shout out, 'Hello, how you all doing?'. If she was miming she couldn't have done this. Now she's slightly changing the words of the song to reference the host of the chat show. If she was miming she couldn't have done this. Kylie isn't miming. SHE IS NOT FUCKING MIMING!
The thing with buying takeaway sandwiches is. you're going to buy them from the place that serve the nicest ones, no matter how rude the staff are. I know that with this sandwich purchase insight, I've just changed the way you think about buying sandwiches. You don't have to thank me - in fact you can't. You're powerless; just someone reading words on a screen. How did it come to this? I mean really. This is humiliating - for God sake go out for a walk or read a book or something.
Anyway, normally the rude bloke in the sandwich shop doesn't bother me. His supercilious tone and grimace at every word I utter are just shallow pot-holes along the road to my baguette bounty. It seems to be harder for him anyway: having to lower himself, as someone who prepares and sells sandwiches, to sell sandwiches to someone who doesn't sell and prepare sandwiches. Incidentally, I've got no idea what 'supercilious' actually means. It just seemed right to use it there. I'm hoping it means something like 'superior', but if it means 'eight-legged' or 'floatation device' then I apologise. But I am doing this live - there is no miming in my writing of blogs. Incidentally, how you all doing?
Then the bloke in front of me with ALL of the 2008 tour dates for Rod Stewart's 2008 Australia/New Zealand tour on the back of his t-shirt picked up his sandwich, stepped backwards and crushed my toes with his heel. He apologised, I told him it wasn't a problem. It was a problem, it hurt my toes. Sandwich man looked at me with his, 'and what exactly are you doing here?' stare. I felt the anger that builds through pain, burning my insides. I concentrated every single available resource of my soul not to tell this man to go do something unnatural with a wholemeal baton. I composed myself.
'Can I have a crayfish baguette please?' I said, almost like a man who hadn't just been stepped on by a fat Rod Stewart fan. In fact I could almost have been one of those casual sandwich purchasers, one who would quite like a crayfish baguette, but if it didn't happen – well there'd be no big drama – just one of those things.
But sandwich man was having none of it. A little flick of his hair, then his body froze. His facial expression moved from boredom to unrestrained contempt.
'Do you mean Crayfish on a bed of rocket?' he said, unnecessarily capitalising the 'c' in 'crayfish'.
There are about twelve different baguettes available. The total number of those that have crayfish in them is one. This man's ignoring of basic set theory was without question deliberate. The man who can't let 2008 go may have crushed my toes, but this man was thumping my face with his reluctance to serve me lunch.
I'd like to tell you how I made an amusing and cutting retort, how I found out where he lived and set fire to his dog – but I didn't. I just said 'yes.' But I didn't say 'please', and I still got the baguette. That's the Weymouth in me.