an enormous and garish place just around the corner from the music venue.
It was mystifyingly, inexplicably busy. I wondered why humans would willingly queue at a counter to request processed food,
then carry it to a table which was not even set, and then eat it from the paper?
Afterward, despite having paid for it, the customers themselves are responsible for clearing away the detritus. Very strange.
After some contemplation, I had opted for a square of indeterminate white fish, which was coated in bread crumbs and deep fried
and then inserted between an overly sweet bread bun, accompanied, bizarrely, by a processed cheese slice,
a limp lettuce leaf and some salty, tangy white slime which bordered on obscenity.
Despite Mummy’s best efforts, I am no epicure; however, surely it is a culinary truth universally acknowledged
that fish and cheese do not go together? Someone really ought to tell Mr. McDonald.
There was nothing to tempt me from the choice of desserts, so I opted instead for a coffee, which was bitter and lukewarm.
Naturally, I had been about to pour it all over myself but, just in time, had read the warning printed on the paper cup,
alerting me to the fact that hot liquids can cause injury. A lucky escape, Eleanor! I said to myself, laughing quietly.
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