Biscuits
I’ll tell you a story. Which will tell you something of the sort of things that happen to me. It's absolutely true.
You know sometimes people tell you stories that are supposed to be something that happened to their wife's cousin's best friend, but actually probably got made up somewhere along the line. Well, mine’s like one of those stories, except that it actually happened, and I know it actually happened, because the person it actually happened to was me.
So listen to this: I had a train to catch. I arrived at the station. I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong. I suppose it is at least equally possible that British Rail had got the time of the train wrong. Hadn't occurred to me before.
So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword – I think it was the Guardian – and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee. And in addition I bought some biscuits – ‘Rich Tea’, the sort I like best.
Laden with all these new possessions, I went and sat at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round.
So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits. You see it? Alright. What you don't see, because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He was sitting there opposite me: perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look as if he was about to do anything weird.
He did this: He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and ... ate it. He actually ate it. Just like that.
Well, and now you are probably wondering what on Earth I did next. In the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled… to ignore it.
Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for, is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits.
I stared furiously at the crossword. Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself.
I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice that the packet was already mysteriously open. After my fashion, I fought back, taking a tough line. I ate the biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that the guy would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit it stays eaten.
And the guy…? Took another one. Honestly, this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting here right now.
And the problem was that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject the second time around. What do you say? 'Excuse me ... I couldn't help noticing, er ...' Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigour than previously.
I stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that has characterised us Englishmen over the centuries – I went into the breach again.
I took another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table.
We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me. Well it was only eight biscuits but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Horrifying.
So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the guy at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course.
As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper ... lay my biscuits.
You know sometimes people tell you stories that are supposed to be something that happened to their wife's cousin's best friend, but actually probably got made up somewhere along the line. Well, mine’s like one of those stories, except that it actually happened, and I know it actually happened, because the person it actually happened to was me.
So listen to this: I had a train to catch. I arrived at the station. I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong. I suppose it is at least equally possible that British Rail had got the time of the train wrong. Hadn't occurred to me before.
So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword – I think it was the Guardian – and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee. And in addition I bought some biscuits – ‘Rich Tea’, the sort I like best.
Laden with all these new possessions, I went and sat at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round.
So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table. On my left, the newspaper. On my right, the cup of coffee. In the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits. You see it? Alright. What you don't see, because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He was sitting there opposite me: perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look as if he was about to do anything weird.
He did this: He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and ... ate it. He actually ate it. Just like that.
Well, and now you are probably wondering what on Earth I did next. In the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled… to ignore it.
Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for, is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits.
I stared furiously at the crossword. Couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself.
I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice that the packet was already mysteriously open. After my fashion, I fought back, taking a tough line. I ate the biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that the guy would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit it stays eaten.
And the guy…? Took another one. Honestly, this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting here right now.
And the problem was that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject the second time around. What do you say? 'Excuse me ... I couldn't help noticing, er ...' Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigour than previously.
I stared at the crossword, again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that has characterised us Englishmen over the centuries – I went into the breach again.
I took another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table.
We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me. Well it was only eight biscuits but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Horrifying.
So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the guy at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course.
As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper ... lay my biscuits.
adapted from © Douglas Adams: So long, and thanks for all the fish
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