One Plate of French Toast and Then Immediately Bring Me a Plate of Cakes

You ever get self-conscious about the speed you are eating compared to everyone else on the table around you? Because you just demolished a pile of three pancakes in the time it took the guy opposite you to put sugar in his coffee, and now he’s distractedly telling some story – his dad was in hospital but now he’s fine, and long story short the whole family is going to the Maldives for Christmas, yadda yadda – and you’re just watching the single forkful of bacon he loaded up two minutes ago swirl around in a circle as he gestures key words in his narrative – “nose-tube”, “sobbing”, “mum sold one of the houses” – and he does not seem to be… ever going to… eat it.

“Yes, hello,” you say to the passing waiter. “We’re on the clock here with the food, aren’t we?” and the waiter says: yes. And you pause for a second and say: “Two more plates of miniature croissants and one thing of avo toast with a soft-boiled egg.” It comes, you eat in silence, the guy is still talking about dialysis, crumbs all down you, then a smoothie (which you always forget is just "very wet food" and equally as filling as a bowl of fruit, and now you are creaking at the edge of your jeans) and then you have a bit of leftover pancake off someone else’s plate, plus a whole bunch of prosecco (two minutes before the two-hour time limit is up you manage to order a glass from not only one but two of the waiters buzzing around, but everyone is getting up to leave so you choke-drink two glasses in rapid succession while putting your coat on), and now you are very drunk and very full and someone suggests a "walk through the park", but you know it’s just going to be walking really slowly away from all the available toilets while Warren goes on about his dad’s foot surgery (“Very ingrown”) so you make your excuses and leave.