Oh Well, My Lament

The lady waitress appears from behind me and I snap out of my bubble of thoughts. She places a square ceramic plate in front of me. It's the salami and cheese sandwich that I ordered. I look at the two triangle shaped pockets made out of cheap, white toast and can't hide my disappointment. But then, I don't try very hard. I still say thank you and the woman disappears again.

Observing the sorry piece of sandwich I reminisce about my sandwich times in London. They're different there, I think. They're real. With decent, edible stuff between slices of wholegrain goodness. I pick up the cutlery, which looks as if it had never seen the light of day before, and play with one of the crusty treats. The edges look sharper than the knife that I'm holding. Oh well, my lament.

I experienced London as a mad expensive city, but this sandwich right here was not worth its two eighty. Of course I still ate it all, but I can't say I'm much satisfied. Also, the table is coloured in a retina-aching red, but the glass door in front of me offers some natural light to ease the pain. At least the coffee is alright. And the seat is okay as well. I'm afraid this is as good as it gets in this town.