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Fish 'n' Chips

Chippy-day, Friday.

I will pretend religion as an excuse to eat fish. Cock’n’bull, British eating establishment, with real live Brits, ex-pats living among the savage colonials. Local jargon infecting their speech, they gather for cultural infusion; reinforcement; a dose of Blighty— island in a continent—to counter the overwhelming surroundings…

I will sit by myself, struggle to order without spilling my drink (no beer, no matter how nice that would be) while the others (from afar) mutter unintelligibly in the manner of the mutter-tongue, propa-King’s, right? I couldn’t tell you. “Fish and chips, please and thank you,” reading my paper, occasional glances at on-screen footballers; football, several t.v. flatscreens a-dangle, optimal viewing (‘strategically’); multi direction—from simulated structural beams if you will, reminiscent the old country style, ‘Tudor’-something-or-other.

I think I’d have fun here at night... We, a couple a couples; beers, darts, food. It’s too far away, the drive, and, considering the depth into the city, too crowded for our current states of mind, at least ahead of time. Sure, we’d have fun once we got here, but the contemplation—the degree of density, people-wise, yeee…

They are kind to me, (if not recognizable as kindred—are you sure we’re from, uh…?) leaving me be while I dip and chip (they probably don’t call it that; not call it anything ‘cept eating), and eat my fish.

After 15 to 20 of absolute silence I leave, stuffed, full amount including tip... on the table, perhaps a thank you from me if seen (and only if).

That was too much…enough calories for two meals and then some, but dammit, it is a Friday.


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