John McCullagh September 11, 2008
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Foster’s Coffee Shop was not the sort of place where one raised one’s voice. 

 

A manager suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

 

He rudely dismissed the girl who had come to serve us.

 

”What IS all this noise?’ he demanded. 

 

‘Would you mind keeping your voices DOWN?’ He was actually hissing at us.

 

‘And just WHO are YOU?’ Peter demanded. He hadn’t batted an eyelid.

 

‘I am the Manager of this whole Department‘, the man pontificated, stretching himself to his full height. 

 

‘Now, kindly explain your outburst!’

 

‘I shall … gladly … Sir.

 

Just as soon as you explain serving your customers inferior products like that!’

 

Peter didn’t even deign to glance at his coffee cup but instead indicated it with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 

For the first time the manager glanced down and I detected an involuntary twitch.

 

‘Oh My Gawd! Oh dear! Oh dear! I’m so sorry, Sir!’

 

‘As well you might be!’ Peter emphasised. 

 

A dead moth floated on top of the coffee cup. Its detached wings were clearly visible.

 

‘I’m sure this is in breach of Health and Safety Regulations,’ Peter sniffed.

 

‘You know about such things?’ the manager muttered, suspiciously.

 

‘I should do. 

 

My father’s the Health and Safety Officer of the Town Council!’

 

I thought the poor man was going to take a heart attack on the spot. 

 

His eyes bulged, his face turned red and he partially keeled over.

 

… more to follow …

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