What Goes Around Comes Around

After three months of dieting and running round the park, I am one stone lighter and able to fasten my coat once more, just in time for winter. I was rather glad of my decreased girth last night in the pub, when I was forced to squeeze like a contortionist through a six inch gap between tables to get to the last seat. Despite getting my generous backside in their faces, the two women at the next table were totally charming, and a bit of silly chat was exchanged.

This was in total contrast to the scene 60 minutes later at the next venue, a popular West End tapas bar. As the spouse and I were shown to our table, there was another narrow gap to negotiate in order to reach the bench seating against the wall. In the darkness, I had another of my unfortunate stumbles over the cast-iron base of the table, and landed elbow first on an overstuffed Moorish-style cushion, the sheer size of which made getting upright in the limited space slightly tricky. In addition, the grain of the upholstery conspired with my woollen cardigan to hold me in a Velcro-like grip, and I struggled like a cockroach on flypaper to turn around. This shocking display of human frailty caused great offence to the two sour-faced fashionistas at the next table, who rolled their eyes disparagingly and stared daggers at me for the rest of the evening.

They nearly put me right off my over-priced Butifarra Negra.

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