I sit before the computer keyboard, fingers restless on the keys. Its isn't Saturday yet but I won't be here to write a Saturday blog. As fate would have it, (are you ready for further irony B&B?) I'm going to a funeral. My son-in-law's grandfather has past away and Linda and I are paying our respects, along with being supportive to my daughter and her husband. Then we're rushing back to Toronto where we have tickets for the stage production of Sound of Music.
But as I sit here now pondering what to write as my Saturday post, in my mind a strange fantasy starts to take shape.
I imagine a restaurant where the lights are turned low. Very low. A tuxedoed waiter glides from table to table lighting tiny tea candles in their crystal vases.
Linda and Barry are seated at a table peering through the gloom at the restaurant's massive menu occasionally making out words through the flickering light.
Barry is on a liquid and soft food diet while Canada's finest surgeons hold nation wide conferences in an attempt to agree on the optimum treatment plan for the esophageal cancer they discovered while on a video taping expedition down his throat a week ago Thursday. He imagines doctors across this great land laying aside their own needs, neglecting their families, ignoring their dogs, eschewing their children, sacrificing their sleep while working tirelessly on his behalf.
Or, at least, this is the scenario that runs through Barry's mind while he sits squinting at the menu in the darkened restaurant.
"Are the lights turned off for Earth Day," he asks Linda.
"I don't think so," she replies. "I believe it's always like this here. It's romantic."
"Well its so dark I don't see gruel listed on this menu," Barry complains.
"I'm sure its there, dear," Linda pats his hand lovingly, "Its just difficult to make out in this impenetrable murk."
There is a breeze to Barry's right which he interprets as a sign the waiter is hovering close to their table, although in the inky darkness no one is visible.
"Is there a waiter nearby?" Barry asks into the gloaming.
"Qui Monsieur," the waiter replies.
"I"m not finding gruel on the menu."
"Non, Monsieur? But zat cannot be? I will ask ze chief."
"Thank you," Barry says.
"I'm sure they'll find some," Linda reassures him. She is wondering about having the New York steak with baked potato and spring mix but is undecided whether she wants sour cream or butter for the potato. Or maybe both?
"Pardon, Monsieur." The waiter emerges from the cavernous dark. "But we are out of gruel. However, ze chief informs me that ve hav ample slop. Made fresh today."
"Is it locally grown?" Barry asks.
"Mais oui, Monsieur."
"But of course!"
Barry relaxes. "Then please I will have that."
"See," Linda beams, "I told you there would be no problem eating out on this diet."
"I'm a lucky man," Barry agrees.
"And you're handling this diet thing with such maturity."
Barry blushes, looking forward to his slop.
I lift my fingers from the keyboard. Let Saturday arrive, this post is done.
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