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.


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