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Twitter, help me out. Argument over dinner with the other half:
You’ve been out walking all day. You haven’t eaten. You arrive at a pub at 10pm. They’ve stopped serving food.
The people at the next table have a largely-untouched plate of tasty food left.
Do you ask...?
You’ve been out walking all day. You haven’t eaten. You arrive at a pub at 10pm. They’ve stopped serving food.
The people at the next table have a largely-untouched plate of tasty food left.
Do you ask...?
No, YOU’RE ruining this lovely dinner by posting stupid Twitter polls, you narcissist.
And may I add, I do not enjoy the widespread presumption that I am the mad greedy fish in this scenario.
Why, it may be asked, does social convention dictate that it’s fine to meet a stranger in a pub and smooch them, but not to take food off their plates?
What kind of topsy-turvy dystopia are we living in, people?
What kind of topsy-turvy dystopia are we living in, people?
The evening has now descended into an argument over whether Barry Scott is overstating the efficacy of Cillit Bang. It’s possibly time for me to go to bed.
