Chapter Four: Lunch

Today, I took Alfonso (the small grey weevil who has made his home on my desk) out for lunch. This was in part a gesture of reconciliation as we have had some awkward moments recently, and also because, with the blossom popping out on trees and the daffodils all standing in a row- it felt like that kind of a day.

I carefully placed Alfonso in a small silver cigarette case that had been left to me by late grandfather. For some curious reason, it is inscribed with the initials V.A.R.P., which were not his. On the front, it is engraved with a picture of a hot air balloon, in the Art-Deco manner.

Alfonso was reluctant. "I don't smoke".

"Just get in", I said, and shut the box, which has a very satisfying and well made closing mechanism.

"If I was American, I could make millions from suing you", he said from within, but I pretended not to hear him.

We went round the corner to a little French place I know. That is to say, the tables at the front with white linen cloths, the laminated menu in swirling type offering croque monsieur type fare, the haughty waiter with a pencil moustache- all these things suggest a French brasserie. But I happen to know as a fact that they are all Bulgarian, and the food more or less bears this out.

The haughty waiter waltzed over to us between the empty tables.

I made him wait for several minutes, and then began to give my order.

"If I could have the chicken geziers salad, but without the geziers, and the dressing on the side. Then, I'd like the moules mariniere, but with spinach on the side, instead of frites."

The waiter scribbled on his pad. "Bread?"

I shook my head.

"And to drink?"

"Just some sparkling mineral water please".

"Very good monsieur", he said, but not like he meant it. "And for monsieur", he said, gesturing with his pencil towards Alfonso, who was engaged in a complicated game of Melrose Place Top Trumps with himself.

Without even looking up, Alfonso said very quickly and confidently-

"Foie gras, with a glass of Sauterne. Followed by the fillet - rare, and a bottle of your most expensive claret, of which I have very limited expectations but it can't be worse than what he's having. I will then decide between the iles flotant and the cheese board, but you had probably better saddle up both."

The waiter departed in stunned silence. Somewhere, in the streets behind us, a van backfired noisily.

Alfonso looked up, finally. "Heather Locklear again", he sighed. "I'm never going to win this game."

So, dear reader, I squashed him under a candlestick. But he'll be back tomorrow.