two people, each talking to/for himself
Yesterday I had breakfast with Tom. [Tom likes to set morning events at potentially ambitious times--more ambitious for him than for me. One time he was set on going to Borough Market on a Saturday, and he resolved that we should meet at his flat at 8:30 so that we could get there by nine--he admonished me of the importance of getting there early so that we'd avoid the crowds. I arrived at his door a little early, as I often do, and I waited for a few minutes before calling him to let him know I was downstairs. It was clear I had awakened him. 5 minutes later, he met me at the door.] Yesterday's time goal was 9:30, and I texted him at 9:31 that I was downstairs and he arrived five minutes later. I think he was wearing the same pants and green sweater that he was wearing for our last (or any given) morning excursion.
By about 10:00, we had worked our way to a place for breakfast, as the place Tom had in mind was not open on Sundays. Tom ordered breakfast number three, but without black pudding. I ordered breakfast number one, but without beans. When it came, I found a large piece of vaguely toasted bread covered in fairly runny scrambled eggs, accompanied by some very fatty and undercooked back bacon doused in some sort of dark brown juice.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked him critically and with a damning look on my face, in the way I am fond of asking Tom things.
He raised his arms and started making vague mixing gestures with his hands while sporting a dumb smile. "You're in England!" Thanks, Tom.
"And what is this?" I pointed at the brown liquid on my bacon.
He kept smiling, but a bit more deviously. "I don't know."
Halfway through our meal, I broached the issue of clumber spaniels. "Tom, I have two questions. First, do you--and I don't know why I'm even asking you this because you don't know things [he looked sad]--well, you don't--but do you know what a clumber spaniel is? It's a dog."
He stopped looking sad because he knew it was true. "No, I don't really know dogs."
"I've become sort of obsessed with clumber spaniels--"
"You, become obsessed with something?" I stared at him for a little while and continued.
"They're like golden retrievers, if you took golden retrievers and gave them shorter, fatter legs and more skin in the face. I can't have one because I don't have a yard."
"And what was your second question?"
"What?"
"When we started down this road, you said that you had two questions. You said, 'Firstly,' and then you said your first question. . ."
"And what was my first question?" We couldn't recall. "Oh, do you know what a clumber spaniel is? No, you don't, because it's not a border terrier [Tom is obsessed with border terriers], and so the next question doesn't really matter, because if I asked you if anybody you knew had a clumber spaniel, you wouldn't know anyway. It's quite possible that you do know people with clumber spaniels."
"I also know west highland terriers."
At some point during breakfast (while I was trying to recall the name of our friend Ben's late golden retriever--we had both forgotten--it came to me later--Freddy--Tom thought it was Benji, and I had to explain to Tom that they wouldn't call the dog Benji if they called their son Ben), Tom called his mother and asked if I could come for Easter lunch. Tom told me I was welcome to come, but there weren't any plans.
"Will it be on Sunday or Easter Monday?" He asked me.
"Why the hell are you asking me?"
"Well, I'm not religious--I don't know about these things. Would you usually have Easter lunch on Sunday or Easter Monday?"
"Tom, we don't celebrate Easter Monday in America."
"OK, then Sunday it is. We should get the bill and go for a walk."
We paid and left, and Tom led the way it turns out aimlessly and then decided he had work to do and we would part ways but would see each other for Easter. That was our first interaction in about two months. Some things, it seems, don't change. /B/
By about 10:00, we had worked our way to a place for breakfast, as the place Tom had in mind was not open on Sundays. Tom ordered breakfast number three, but without black pudding. I ordered breakfast number one, but without beans. When it came, I found a large piece of vaguely toasted bread covered in fairly runny scrambled eggs, accompanied by some very fatty and undercooked back bacon doused in some sort of dark brown juice.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked him critically and with a damning look on my face, in the way I am fond of asking Tom things.
He raised his arms and started making vague mixing gestures with his hands while sporting a dumb smile. "You're in England!" Thanks, Tom.
"And what is this?" I pointed at the brown liquid on my bacon.
He kept smiling, but a bit more deviously. "I don't know."
Halfway through our meal, I broached the issue of clumber spaniels. "Tom, I have two questions. First, do you--and I don't know why I'm even asking you this because you don't know things [he looked sad]--well, you don't--but do you know what a clumber spaniel is? It's a dog."
He stopped looking sad because he knew it was true. "No, I don't really know dogs."
"I've become sort of obsessed with clumber spaniels--"
"You, become obsessed with something?" I stared at him for a little while and continued.
"They're like golden retrievers, if you took golden retrievers and gave them shorter, fatter legs and more skin in the face. I can't have one because I don't have a yard."
"And what was your second question?"
"What?"
"When we started down this road, you said that you had two questions. You said, 'Firstly,' and then you said your first question. . ."
"And what was my first question?" We couldn't recall. "Oh, do you know what a clumber spaniel is? No, you don't, because it's not a border terrier [Tom is obsessed with border terriers], and so the next question doesn't really matter, because if I asked you if anybody you knew had a clumber spaniel, you wouldn't know anyway. It's quite possible that you do know people with clumber spaniels."
"I also know west highland terriers."
At some point during breakfast (while I was trying to recall the name of our friend Ben's late golden retriever--we had both forgotten--it came to me later--Freddy--Tom thought it was Benji, and I had to explain to Tom that they wouldn't call the dog Benji if they called their son Ben), Tom called his mother and asked if I could come for Easter lunch. Tom told me I was welcome to come, but there weren't any plans.
"Will it be on Sunday or Easter Monday?" He asked me.
"Why the hell are you asking me?"
"Well, I'm not religious--I don't know about these things. Would you usually have Easter lunch on Sunday or Easter Monday?"
"Tom, we don't celebrate Easter Monday in America."
"OK, then Sunday it is. We should get the bill and go for a walk."
We paid and left, and Tom led the way it turns out aimlessly and then decided he had work to do and we would part ways but would see each other for Easter. That was our first interaction in about two months. Some things, it seems, don't change. /B/