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"No,
No, let me do this…"
- James Clarke
I have just returned from a couple of weeks in Britain
and while there I visited Streetly in Warwickshire,
the village in which I was, if I may use that unfortunate
expression, brought up.
My older sister and her husband, Robin - a successful
businessman- live there and suggested we dine out.
In England, where the rand was at the time worth only
9 English pence, I realised that a dinner for three,
at the sort of restaurant they like, would, in rands,
closely approximate the national debt of Greece. And
that was precisely the sort of restaurant where we ended
up.
I would obviously have to offer to pay. My brother-in-law
would then counter offer. Then would come the tricky
part. One cannot capitulate too quickly but, at the
same time, one must not be too forceful otherwise you
get landed with the bill.
I am very nervous of restaurant bills at the best
of times and I greatly admire those who, when the bill
comes, let it lie there for a few minutes while they
finish the conversation, then casually lean forward,
pick it up, and say quietly "I will handle this,
if you don't mind."
And you say "But, bu..."
And he will gesture with his hand that it will be
a privilege to pay the bill. In fact I cannot emphasise
enough how much I admire such people.
When I take friends to dinner and the bill comes -
and I know that I have no choice but to pay - I cannot,
for the life of me, remain nonchalant. I cannot stop
my eyes from rolling around in my head as I try to steer
them away from the little piece of paper.
I keep telling my eyes to quit looking but I can feel
them straining on their parent stalks like young Dobermans
on leashes.
I try concentrating on the conversation, but my delinquent
mind begins to taunt me: "Think of all the things
you could have done with all the money you are about
to splurge on what now lies in an obscene mush in the
stomachs of your friends!"
Halfway through the main course my brother-in-law
suggested a second bottle of French claret. A bead of
perspiration rolled down my forehead.
When, inevitably, the bill arrived it was placed equidistant
between us.
We both ignored it. I did so because I was hoping
my brother-in-law would take it (a distinct strategic
advantage for me) but also because it is not refined
to snatch a bill. My upbringing precludes this - like
it precludes turning my fork over to pick up peas.
But the bill began to obsess me. It would be, I had
mentally worked out, about L120 - R1 300. In South Africa
you could dine out for a week on that.
I thought that if the bill were nearer to my brother-in-law
he would feel some obligation to pick it up. Perhaps,
by placing my elbows on the table, I could surreptitiously
nudge it nearer to him.
Maybe, my inner voice said, he has no intention of paying
and you will have to foot the bill.
aybe you should say: "I'll handle this, if you
don't mind. They will accept Zairian money here, won't
they?" Or you call: Waiter! May I settle the bill
in African waginkas? The present exchange rate is 950
000 to the pound."
My brother-in-law then made an unexpected move. He
left the table. I now had no choice but to reach forward,
as casually as I could, and unfold the bill. It was
for 156 pounds. I stiffened involuntarily, my mouth
fell open and my shoes fell off just like they do when
you are hit by a municipal bus.
My sister said: " Don't worry about the bill.
The proprietor is a business partner of ours - we eat
here free."
If I'd known that I would have ordered lobster.
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