When Two Worlds Collide

Picture the scene.  A small English town in the depths of Hertfordshire, bathed in warm sunshine.  The picturesque High Street playing host to it`s regular busy Saturday afternoon market being enjoyed by locals and out-of-towners alike.  The glorious sunrays determining that everyone has a skip in their step and a smile on their lips. People browsing in the bustling market place as they choose idly from the array of colourful stalls.  Icecream vans successfully plying their trade whilst queues form for their whipped delicacies. Babies bask lazily in pushchairs with their summer bonnets of many colours strategically placed on their heads.

Tucked away from the main thoroughfare, behind the market, people can enjoy all kinds of gourmet fayre and alfresco eateries.  My daughter suggested a place she had been to once before with her husband.  We headed towards it and were relieved to see one empty table amongst the occupied tables full of customers enjoying palitable delights.

 "Well, this is rather pleasant" I remarked to my daughter as she positioned the pushchair carrying my granddaughter alongside us, facing the table.

 Glancing around I was suitably impressed at the food I could see on the plates on nearby tables, and my tummy rumbled telling me it too was impressed.  The service was good and within minutes we had given our order to the friendly waitress.  The tables were set in a traditional fashion outside the cafe but I noticed their were some benches positioned outside the grouping of the tables where people who were not patrons of the cafe could sit and perhaps eat their own food.  Gradually the benches filled with various people.  Some had salads, obviously bought from supermarkets who were happily enjoying their choice of lunch.  Couples sat together chatting; children laughed, skipped and dropped their icecreams.

Eden sat in her pushchair contentedly crunching the skips Jemma gave her.  She also loved the grated cheese put before her washed down with a generous portion of her bottled water.  It was as I looked around to see if I could spot our food being carried out by our waitress that I first saw them - The Great British Public.

Both he and she were huge! - Squashed onto a bench which visibly bowed under their weight.  He wore a grubby red tshirt, hem rolled up exposing his ample stomach.  His grey jogging bottoms sat underneath his bulging belly.  His dirty grey hair was scrapped back off his crimson face as he inhaled deeply on a roll up.  He had an air of contented idleness and filth.  His partner wore her frizzy long white/grey hair in a centre parting.  Her grey complexion complimented the stained grey tshirt she wore.  The navy blue leggings that stuck to her lumpy legs had been stretched to enormous proportions making them almost transparent.  She also dragged heavily on a rolled up cigarette. Daughter number one, aged about twenty years of age sat on an adjoining wall talking loudly to her parents while daughter number two, a girl of about ten years of age,  stood nearby in her over-sized polyester flowery dress.  Both had their hair pulled into untidy ponytails, large wispy strands blowing wildly in the breeze.

Each member of the family spoke as if they addressing a large crowd.  No need for megaphones; their voices boomed around the seated diners.  Those unfortunate enough to be closest to them appeared anxious and eager to finish their food. 

The area was thinning with a steady stream of diners leaving unfinished meals as their outdoor dining was disrupted by the family from hell. 

Then the ultimate social insult; a massive burp from Mr Slob. The deep-bellied sound resonated for miles.  It was impossible not to look round with a look of disdain on our faces. Two middle-aged blonde, bejewelled ladies sitting closeby looked horrified and shifted uneasily in their seats.   Jemma begged me to say nothing. It was an effort.

Stunned silence resumed until daughter number one let rip with a string of expletives so loud and aggressive, we very nearly took cover underneath the metal tables.  No, it was okay, she was only shouting at someone 100 yards away - something about getting some "f*****g crisps"!

I looked over at the cafe to see if any staff were coming outside to maybe have a word with the undesirables; no, they were no doubt taking refuge in the kitchens at the rear of the building.