Food

The last three times I have been to the bakery there has been a fat chick there with a never ending order of food

“I’ll have 3 muffins, a slice of rhubarb pie, 4 brownies, a biscotti, 4 hot cross buns, a piece of chocolate cake, oh, one of those fruit loaves, three French hens and a partridge, and a pear tree, and…” the fat chick turns to me and says, “Oh sorry, I don’t come over this way very often.” I could almost see the crumbs falling from her lips, and in the middle of all that the lady behind the counter asks me if it is only bread that I want? And, of course, I still can’t recognise the loaf I want and the person serving has to look at the bread to tell me which one I want, at which point I say, “I don’t mind waiting. I can wait.” And I don’t mind waiting, for our jellyroll-baby to conclude her wish list, er, bakery order. And, of course, fat chicks, like grandmas, when it comes to food, are very generous and they invariably say, “Oh no, you go ahead if you only want bread,” with a Sale of the Century hand gesture, (and a perplexed look at me wanting so little food) so the shop assistant gets distracted by my order and by telling me which loaf is the Spelt loaf and if they don’t have a Spelt loaf she has to go through what they do have and the whole thing gets somewhat derailed, when I could have waited until the never ending bucket list came to its natural conclusion.

And, let’s face it, who isn’t a fat chick in our modern western society, I think, as I suck in my stomach.