Last night, a Ferndown quarter bent Root with Old Gowrie, and a tale comes with it.
Last night, my wife and I had dropped off our daughter at a busy restaurant, as we’re down to one car at the moment. She had a lift home, but we didn’t want to leave until we knew she had met up with her friends, as neither of us had our phone on us for her to call. Not seeing her re-emerge, I eventually set down the Ferndown and went in to confirm that she'd found them and leave. A waitress homed in one me and asked where I wanted to be seated. I explained that I couldn’t stay, but said I would be delighted to take one of their paper menus and bring my wife next time. She walked me to where the takeaway menus were usually kept, only to discover that they were out. She started to tell me that the information was online, then paused and said, “Sir, you do have, internet, right?” The technological term was spoken more slowly and clearly, with raised eyebrows and lowered chin so I could be sure to recognise the introduction of a significant but potentially unfamilar term. “Yes,” I sighed, “I have heard of it.”
I’m just now turned fifty, and already consigned to the ranks of decrepitude!
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