I’m on a date and I go to the toilet while we’re waiting for the mains, and there’s a mirror in there, so I look at myself and pick at some dry skin in that little groove where my upper and lower lip come together – it’s been bugging me the whole night.
Then I stop and think, but what if the mirror’s two-way – the kitchen’s on the other side – and all the chefs are in there looking at me right now, laughing their heads off.
So I drop my hand from my mouth, stand up straight, and begin to pull faces. I put my hands into claws and do a silent roar. I pick my nose and flick the bogey. I hold my chin up between a thumb and index finger and look pensively into the distance. I place a flat hand over my mouth and pucker my lips like I’ve just heard some cheeky innuendo. I stick both middle fingers up and scrunch my face into exaggerated anger.
Then I stop, take a leak, wash my hands, avoid looking in the mirror again, and go back to my date.
When I sit down she says, still not here.
I say, what’s not here?
– The mains.
I shrug. There’s no hurry.
She continues, my dad always used to go to the loo when we went out for meals hoping the food would be there when we came back.
– And was it?
– Most of the time.
– Probably good it’s not come then. Probably best I’m not like your dad.
She said, well he does eat his bogies rather than flick them.
– Excuse me?
She raises her left hand and points at the entrance.
– Security cameras, she says.
Then the mains arrive.