Sunday, 4th June.
An Australian, a New Zealander, and a South African walk into
a cafe. No, really, we did. After church today we wandered down
to Fulham Broadway to hang out. (Did you know...that if you go into
any McDonald's "restaurant" of a Sunday evening you will find
at least one church group in there?)
Cara and Torsten had iced coffees, and I ordered an iced chocolate.
Nothing out of the ordinary there. Cara and Torsten received their
drinks, and I noticed that there was some animated conversation going
on at the bar, and some worried looks in my direction. The waitress
then brought my drink over.
Well apparently an iced chocolate in London
is not the same as the Universal
Iced Chocolate that you'll receive if you go into any cafe in any part
of Australia. They'd mixed some drinking chocolate with some milk and
water and chucked some ice in. The waitress asked me if it was ok, I
said it was a little bit different to what I expected, and then the
bloke who made my drink came over. (What is his title? He ain't a chef,
is he called a coffee-maker? Or what?) Anyway, he came over and said
something about preparing it in a shaker, and I quite frankly couldn't
care less by this stage, and refrained from explaining to them how to
make an iced chocolate.
Somewhere along the line, everyone at the Dawes Road Palace started
calling each other "Denzel". Don't ask me why. Jules and I were
sitting in the living room, and Mox walked in. "Denzel" said Jules.
"Derek" said Mox. But Denzel has come to be more than just a name.
"What the Denzel do you think you're doing?" "Stop Denziling about."
"Mate, what a Denzel!" "Do I look like Kevin Denzil to you?"
So later in the evening "Don't Call Me Baby" came on the radio, and
Jules turned it up. We were singing along, and Mox sarcastically called
down from his room "Is that Madison Avenue performing in our house?"
Cheeky bastard. I'm a Very Talented Singer. When the next chorus came
on Mox sang out: "Don't call me Denzel".