I arrived off the Airport train into Central at 10:18. The exact right time to watch the Mountains Line train departing from the station, as commonly happens when I travel.
So, with time to spare and a bit of a hunger forming, I wandered over to Hungry Jacks. Not because it is my preferred eating venue; rather that I am not going to search for something else at that time of night, especially as I am already in the station terminal.
I arrived at the same time as all of the Bulldogs/ Tigers supporters, fresh from Friday Night Football. Fresh is probably not the best adjective here. The food queues were long and the natives were restless. I am not sure that this excuses the young guy abusing the server because she would not sell him a burger for $1. But he felt it was his entitlement and he has "worked at Hungry Jacks so I know how much they really cost".
So, I got my food and headed to the nearest and only available table. There were two chairs at this table, and I chose the one facing the counters and customers. Call me prejudiced if you will, but I really do feel safer when drunken football fanatics are in my line of sight.
A table next to mine soon became available and a group of young people sat down; complete with team flags and the foul language of either youth or lager. Or both. After some minutes a fifth person, a young girl came over to the group; she had gotten the order for the other girl at the table and did not have a seat. She stood for a moment, and Girl 1 (let's just call her FatArse) told her to sit down. Clearly, her visual perception was not all there, or maybe the other girl couldn't see, or didn't choose to sit, in the invisible lounge. Either way, the girl started looking around for an extra seat. She saw the one next to me.
This was not an exciting tale, was it? I had a spare seat. I gave it away. That is besically the gist.
But FatArse, being a lazy, rude and disrespectful type, needed to complete the story. She pointed at the chair next to me, and told her friend to take it. Her friend, possibly raised outside of a barn, replied that she wasn't sure if I was with anybody.
FatArse then turned to look at me and, raising her tone and volume for maximum effect, hollers,
"Oh, Fuck Him!" Her friend, embarassed at the inappropriateness and unnecessary nature of it all, put her head down, took the seat and joined her animal companions.
So there we have it. I know realise that my pure existance is offensive. The act of eating, so necessary and regular, is sign for abuse and disdain to football supporters. And I have less right to do it than other, more deserving patrons. I will, of course, remember this the next time I miss my train home.
So, with time to spare and a bit of a hunger forming, I wandered over to Hungry Jacks. Not because it is my preferred eating venue; rather that I am not going to search for something else at that time of night, especially as I am already in the station terminal.
I arrived at the same time as all of the Bulldogs/ Tigers supporters, fresh from Friday Night Football. Fresh is probably not the best adjective here. The food queues were long and the natives were restless. I am not sure that this excuses the young guy abusing the server because she would not sell him a burger for $1. But he felt it was his entitlement and he has "worked at Hungry Jacks so I know how much they really cost".
So, I got my food and headed to the nearest and only available table. There were two chairs at this table, and I chose the one facing the counters and customers. Call me prejudiced if you will, but I really do feel safer when drunken football fanatics are in my line of sight.
A table next to mine soon became available and a group of young people sat down; complete with team flags and the foul language of either youth or lager. Or both. After some minutes a fifth person, a young girl came over to the group; she had gotten the order for the other girl at the table and did not have a seat. She stood for a moment, and Girl 1 (let's just call her FatArse) told her to sit down. Clearly, her visual perception was not all there, or maybe the other girl couldn't see, or didn't choose to sit, in the invisible lounge. Either way, the girl started looking around for an extra seat. She saw the one next to me.
This was not an exciting tale, was it? I had a spare seat. I gave it away. That is besically the gist.
But FatArse, being a lazy, rude and disrespectful type, needed to complete the story. She pointed at the chair next to me, and told her friend to take it. Her friend, possibly raised outside of a barn, replied that she wasn't sure if I was with anybody.
FatArse then turned to look at me and, raising her tone and volume for maximum effect, hollers,
"Oh, Fuck Him!" Her friend, embarassed at the inappropriateness and unnecessary nature of it all, put her head down, took the seat and joined her animal companions.
So there we have it. I know realise that my pure existance is offensive. The act of eating, so necessary and regular, is sign for abuse and disdain to football supporters. And I have less right to do it than other, more deserving patrons. I will, of course, remember this the next time I miss my train home.
I think calling her FatArse is being too kind!
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