(I mean I didn’t get to eat much yet, but smell…? Yeah. Maybe.)
‘Low-fat,’ Jalisa interjects, informatively.
‘And succulent,’ Solomon continues, ‘if unbelievably fussy …’
‘Yeast-free,’ Jalisa raises her voice slightly ( Wow . Think that crack about her headscarf might still be stinging her?).
‘Yeast-fucking- free ?’ Solomon scoffs.
Jalisa stares at him, heavy-lidded ( Ay . The hypnotic glare of the angry polecat).
‘ And gluten free,’ she growls.
‘What about the bread? ’ Solomon raises one sceptical brow.
‘ Spelt flour,’ she hisses.
‘And the filo pastry ?’
Silence .
‘So you basically think that this food is intended to appeal to someone sickly?’ I jump in (before the actual blows commence- Hmmn . Is Aphra sick? She doesn’t look sick…)
‘Perhaps an allergy sufferer,’ Jalisa ponders, ‘or a very healthy hedonist…’
‘Given that we’re dealing with what could essentially be described as your basic south-east Indian cuisine here,’ Solomon shrugs his ridiculously manly, steel-grey-lambswool, John Smedley-encased shoulders, ‘by your estimation…’ he delivers Jalisa a pitying look, ‘the entire Indian sub-continent should be peopled by allergy sufferers.’
Jalisa stares at him for a while, her expression, quizzical. ‘I’m not sure who built the road , Solomon,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but you seem to be experiencing some kind of temporary charm bypass.’
(No comment is forthcoming from the guy wielding the tarmac.)
The overall impact of this scathing attack is marginally undermined by the fact that as soon as Jalisa finishes speaking she picks up a stray spoon and finishes off the rice pudding with it.
‘ I wanted some of that,’ Solomon finally hisses.
Jalisa smacks her lips, defiantly.
(So he’s definitely not getting any tonight, eh?)
I slowly tiptoe away from the table and towards the door, hands raised (perhaps) in the slightly defensive attitude of a frightened hamster.
‘Well this has been fun,’ I mutter, rapidly exiting.
‘Yes, hasn’t it,’ Jalisa tosses back.
The guard’s name is Seth and he’s extremely garrulous. Within five minutes he’s told me where he’s originally from (Greenwich), which part of London he currently lives in (Battersea), what his last assignment was (some shonky American Wrestling deal at the London Arena), what his next will be (the new Bridget Jones film), how much he’s earning (£100 per day), the duration for which his mother breast fed him (Okay, so now I’m just showing off- the dude was bottle fed, as it happens).
As I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t take a man of my subtle conversational abilities long to lure him around to the fascinating subject of Aphra.
‘ Lovely girl,’ he says cheerfully, ‘but a total fucking nutter .’
‘Really?’
‘Didn’t you notice yet, guv?’ he chortles.
‘Well, she’s certainly a little…’
I raise my brows, suggestively (Could that possibly be constructed as ungallant?).
‘Believe it or not,’ he runs effortlessly on, ‘the first time she ever came here she didn’t have the first clue about who David Blaine was or what the fuck he was doing up there…’ He smiles, fondly, at the memory. ‘She’s like, “But why’s he in the box…?” “Won’t he get sick if he doesn’t eat for all that time?”, “And how will he go to the toilet ?”, “ What ? With everybody just watching ?”’
He cracks up laughing, ‘I mean she was totally concerned for the guy. Just standing there, in her funny little shoes, open-mouthed, staring up at the box in sheer wonder. Like a kid at Christmas, pretty much.’
‘She’d never even heard of Blaine before?’
I’m shocked.
‘Nope. Says she doesn’t have a TV . Never reads a paper. Didn’t have a clue , I swear. Like she’d just landed here from Mars , it was.’
‘But now she’s here most days…’ I casually muse (Sherlock, eat yer heart out).
‘Most
‘Low-fat,’ Jalisa interjects, informatively.
‘And succulent,’ Solomon continues, ‘if unbelievably fussy …’
‘Yeast-free,’ Jalisa raises her voice slightly ( Wow . Think that crack about her headscarf might still be stinging her?).
‘Yeast-fucking- free ?’ Solomon scoffs.
Jalisa stares at him, heavy-lidded ( Ay . The hypnotic glare of the angry polecat).
‘ And gluten free,’ she growls.
‘What about the bread? ’ Solomon raises one sceptical brow.
‘ Spelt flour,’ she hisses.
‘And the filo pastry ?’
Silence .
‘So you basically think that this food is intended to appeal to someone sickly?’ I jump in (before the actual blows commence- Hmmn . Is Aphra sick? She doesn’t look sick…)
‘Perhaps an allergy sufferer,’ Jalisa ponders, ‘or a very healthy hedonist…’
‘Given that we’re dealing with what could essentially be described as your basic south-east Indian cuisine here,’ Solomon shrugs his ridiculously manly, steel-grey-lambswool, John Smedley-encased shoulders, ‘by your estimation…’ he delivers Jalisa a pitying look, ‘the entire Indian sub-continent should be peopled by allergy sufferers.’
Jalisa stares at him for a while, her expression, quizzical. ‘I’m not sure who built the road , Solomon,’ she eventually murmurs, ‘but you seem to be experiencing some kind of temporary charm bypass.’
(No comment is forthcoming from the guy wielding the tarmac.)
The overall impact of this scathing attack is marginally undermined by the fact that as soon as Jalisa finishes speaking she picks up a stray spoon and finishes off the rice pudding with it.
‘ I wanted some of that,’ Solomon finally hisses.
Jalisa smacks her lips, defiantly.
(So he’s definitely not getting any tonight, eh?)
I slowly tiptoe away from the table and towards the door, hands raised (perhaps) in the slightly defensive attitude of a frightened hamster.
‘Well this has been fun,’ I mutter, rapidly exiting.
‘Yes, hasn’t it,’ Jalisa tosses back.
The guard’s name is Seth and he’s extremely garrulous. Within five minutes he’s told me where he’s originally from (Greenwich), which part of London he currently lives in (Battersea), what his last assignment was (some shonky American Wrestling deal at the London Arena), what his next will be (the new Bridget Jones film), how much he’s earning (£100 per day), the duration for which his mother breast fed him (Okay, so now I’m just showing off- the dude was bottle fed, as it happens).
As I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t take a man of my subtle conversational abilities long to lure him around to the fascinating subject of Aphra.
‘ Lovely girl,’ he says cheerfully, ‘but a total fucking nutter .’
‘Really?’
‘Didn’t you notice yet, guv?’ he chortles.
‘Well, she’s certainly a little…’
I raise my brows, suggestively (Could that possibly be constructed as ungallant?).
‘Believe it or not,’ he runs effortlessly on, ‘the first time she ever came here she didn’t have the first clue about who David Blaine was or what the fuck he was doing up there…’ He smiles, fondly, at the memory. ‘She’s like, “But why’s he in the box…?” “Won’t he get sick if he doesn’t eat for all that time?”, “And how will he go to the toilet ?”, “ What ? With everybody just watching ?”’
He cracks up laughing, ‘I mean she was totally concerned for the guy. Just standing there, in her funny little shoes, open-mouthed, staring up at the box in sheer wonder. Like a kid at Christmas, pretty much.’
‘She’d never even heard of Blaine before?’
I’m shocked.
‘Nope. Says she doesn’t have a TV . Never reads a paper. Didn’t have a clue , I swear. Like she’d just landed here from Mars , it was.’
‘But now she’s here most days…’ I casually muse (Sherlock, eat yer heart out).
‘Most
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