Fellow caffeine junky (my husband) and I had dropped into the sleek, posh and trendy Michael Caine's coffee bar on Cathedral Square in Exeter (by the way, not Michael Caine as in world famous actor, but Michael Caine as in world famous chef. Not a lot of people know that). Only for a plain black coffee you understand, nothing too naughty, but the urge for sugar coated calories was strong upon us and I was soon inevitably drawn over to the glass display counter - just to look, you understand, only to look.
A handsome young waiter glanced up at me and smiled (down, grandma) "see anything you fancy?" (I've told you before granny, down I say). "No thanks, only looking. Those doughnuts really do look good though".
He smiled at me in that sort of "ah, bless" type of way I'm getting used to. It's only one stage away from being patted on the head or helped across the road. "Yes, they're home made and really good. If you take a seat, I'll come and get your order."
Over he came with his notebook, "I'll have a plain black coffee and my husband would like a cappucino". Handsome lad smiled back.
"Sure I can't tempt you to anything more?" (someone throw a bucket of water over me, please).
"Erm, maybe I'll have one of those doughnuts after all. And a home-made pastry for my husband".
You will notice that I am the mouthpiece of our organisation, and as such will do the ordering for both of us unless it entails a) speaking French b) ordering wine, or c) if the waitress is young, female and pretty, in which case husband asserts his rights and becomes incredibly smooth and attentive. Anyway, in this case he was busy with his stupid bloody pocket organiser and totally oblivious to everything happening around him, but THAT subject is for another day.
"Apple or jam?"
"Your doughnut - apple or jam?"
"Oh apple, please, it's a bit healthier being fruit" - oh for fuck's sake woman, get a grip. You're considering eating a dollop of deep fried dough, covered in sugar with a half teaspoonful of sweet pureed apple injected into and you're calling it healthy. You silly, silly woman. Stop it now.
He smiled at me indulgently and went off to get our stuff. Husband continued to catalogue the phone numbers in his iPAQ which is bloody rude and he knows it annoys me. It's a high-tech version of hiding behind the newspaper at the breakfast table. I reflected on how pathetic I am getting and how annoying he is and waited for my sugar-rush to arrive.
"That bloke's just sniffed my dough-nut!"
Husband looked up from iPAQ, momentarily. "What?"
"The waiter is sniffing my doughnut - look!"
Sure enough, held up with serving tongs, behind the counter my doughnut was being well and truly sniffed.
Gorgeous waiter-boy arrived with our tray. I know at this point I should have kept my mouth shut, but that just isn't my style.
"You sniffed my doughnut. Is there something wrong with it?"
Stunningly goodlooking waiter goes red.
"Oh, sorry, it's because the labels have fallen off and I couldn't tell apple from jam, and didn't want to give you an unhealthy jam one, you being health conscious and all."
"Oh, that's OK then, I just thought it was a bit strange."
Smirking waiter-boy goes off.
"What do you think of that then?" says I to husband, who has returned to reading War and Peace on the sodding iPAQ. "He actually admitted to sniffing my doughnut. Couldn't work out which was which, apparently".
"Is that all you can say about it? Some bloke sniffing my doughnut in public?"
"Good job you didn't order a muffin".
You couldn't make it up.