No matter how hard I try, posts on this blog will inevitably contain the following sentence – “last night Guido and I were in bed.”
Last night Guido and I were in bed.
Earlier, Guido had torn open the cafe’s gas and electricity bills for the Autumn period. We got a nasty shock because it involved a lot of big black numbers infront of pound signs. Our reaction? What else. We both shared a quadruple brandy and took immediately to bed. And so we lay there, under the duvet, with the central heating thermostat turned to a notch so low it was rendering the boiler completely redundant. Only one bedside lamp burned for essential light. This, I thought, is what it would be like if South London got invaded by those Living Dead Zombies and fuel resources were being rationed by evil vigilantes with oil drums on street corners. Guido and I would have no choice but to while away our evenings barracaded indoors with nothing else to do but have imaginative sex for hours on end. Exhausting, yes, but a hell of a lot more entertaining than rubbing two twigs together in the dark.
I pressed my icy cold toes on Guido’s warm hairy thighs. He was propped up on a pillow wearing a black woollen balaclava. You know the kind. The sort you’d pull on to avoid CCTV if you were in the process of car jacking or robbing a bank.
“What can we do to turn The Spanish Onion into a food haven that will have customers flocking here? Oh, and make us a whole shed load of money too,” said Guido.
“Well,” I said, “One of my blogging friends just wrote a post about delicious food from Roman times. Maybe you could plan one of your famous themed nights in the cafe. Hey! Let’s insist toga wearing is compulsory for customers.”
He thought for a moment. “A toga? In Bermondsey? In the middle of Winter?” said Guido, “that’s plain ridiculous.”
“That’s what Blogger Larry Muffin said!” Hmm. Et tu Guido. Okay so togas were out. Though I did think being picky about wearing an old curtain was a bit rich coming from somebody with a hat on in bed.
“I read about a restaurant in London where diners eat totally in the dark. Apparently it heightens their experience of the food.” I sensed Guido thought I was clutching at straws. Which of course I was.
Delivering food in the dark would certainly be a challenge for our waiters. They had enough trouble getting plates on tables when they could see what they were doing, let alone with the lights out. And, it could save us a fortune on electricity. But, okay so now dining in pitch black was out too. What was I, made of ideas?
“I guess we’ll just have to pray baked potato sales stay buoyant through February,” said Guido optimistically. Yet again our lives hinged on a stuffed King Edward.
I wondered if The Living Dead had any preference between a baked potato over a sandwich and if they did what their favourite filling would be and what bread type they’d choose.
“Just for the record. Would you ever seriously consider having sex with a deranged Zombie?” I said.
I heard Guido sigh as he switched out the lamp. He rolled on top of me.
“Just for the record,” he said, “I thought I already was.”