In Foodland one morning, I ate breakfast beside a dismal old git who had pulled an absolute stunner. She was probably a Nana Plaza showgirl. A chum describes these mismatched couples as "pro-celebrity golf" - and it's not too difficult to work out which one is the pro. She'd probably quoted him three times the going rate but some masochists won't be deterred.
In response to her unsmiling wall of silent contempt, he started clutching at conversational straws.
To indicate his fondness for tomato ketchup, he picked up the bottle, licked his lips and patted his belly. "Mmmmmm," he enthused. Next, he pointed at the Tabasco Sauce and started panting like a dog and fanning his mouth with his hand.
I've never been a great fan of condiment-related mime and there were more than a dozen sauce bottles standing on the counter so I decided to skip the rest of his performance by asking for the bill.
(More on this, check out Dave at Mango Sauce.)
Photo supplied by Common Sense.