It was time for an impromptu visit to the cinema on Saturday night. Miss R was put in charge of getting the tickets, which was brave of us after the last time. (All I am going to say is wrong film, wrong seats, wrong cinema, early exit).
Jason Bourne was on the menu, and the husband, daughter number one and I met up with Miss R, her Latin lodger Senhorita Sofia (she is of Portuguese extraction), and Miss R's wonderfully charismatic friend Madam C. As usual, Miss R and the husband managed to eat the bulk of their pick-a-mix before they had to pay (it's only a matter of time before the Bon-Bon Police track them down) so laden down with all the necessities, ice cream, coffee, stolen sweets and nachos we headed in to the cinema.
Now I have a theory about films which have music playing all the way through them. I think that they are trying to hide something. In this case, it was a plot. Twenty four hours later, I'm still not too sure what the hell it was about, but there were enough car crashes to keep the ambulance chasers in business for some time, and Matt Damon still managed to look pretty at the end of the film, not withstanding the fact that he had been fighting with numerous Eastern Europeans, got rammed by a SWAT truck, and shot at several times.
It all ended well though in the end, as you would expect from a franchise that doesn't know when to call it a day. It was then off to a bar for a quick drink, and Miss R made a phone call to order a takeaway. 'Was it Chinese?' I hear you ask, 'or a lovely curry?' 'Pizza?'
Well no, it was none of the above. Her call was made to Tony at the local kebab van. Miss R is on first name terms with Tony, although he insists on calling her a totally different name to the one she has. After all these years, I expect it would be embarrassing to correct him. Miss R is thoughtful like that.
Sitting in the car while Miss R and the husband collected the kebabs, daughter number one and I looked at the queue. They were all shapes, but mostly one size, and at one point, I did want to shout to rather a rotund chap, 'Step away from the Kebab Van Fatty', but decided against it as there's nothing worse than a lukewarm doner. I am sure that the bacteria are sitting in the polystyrene tray with a thermometer, waiting for it to dip below boiling point, when they will pounce causing a rather nasty case of the trots...
We all headed back to Miss R's house, where she laid out knives and forks for the kebabs. She's gone up the sophistication ladder that one. I remember the days when we ate them straight from the paper after a night out, wiping our greasy fingers across the lovely velour upholstery in our cars. I suppose it was just as well that we didn't have leather upholstery back then. What with the leather trousers which were de rigeur in one part of the 80's, we would have been all over the shop, but to be fair, our trousers would have had a lovely sheen to them.
So it turned out that Madam C was a doner kebab virgin. As she ate the last bits of processed, thrice heated floor sweepings and some thinly sliced cabbage, she proclaimed that she hadn't realised what she'd been missing all those years. Experience tells me that it would have been a different story when she woke up on Sunday morning.
Furry tongue anyone?