somewhere in Fife

Today I had my first police chase, and I was the policeman.

Although, as it turned out, I was the most terribly under-equipped, opportunistic rozzer on the beat.

To set the scene- our typically bustling saturday service was rudely interrupted by a difficult table. They ordered their food to be served according to arbitrary timings; first the bagel and then the tea, and so on. And yet, although they got the food as they had ordered it and despite it being served politely (as we are all accustomed to dealing with such pillocks in the hospitality industry) it soon became evident that everything was all part of an elaborate plan to evade the everyday legal obligations of paying for your scran.

So, when I saw them grinning as they slid past the queue and out into the street I felt the metaphorical aviators slip onto my nose (it could have been a bead of sweat).

The chase was on.

I pelted down the street, leaving behind a trail of primordial manliness as my small, green pinny flapped at my gangly legs. I saw their stupid heads bobbing along in the crowd ahead of me. I reeled round a parked car and blocked their way.

Now I'm not very confrontational, so I had now idea how to start this imminent conversation, never mind decide on the tone of it.

"Did you pay?!", I asked, then, allowing for myself to be mistaken.
"No"
"Oh, well, why not?"
"Because the service was terrible"
"I was there the whole time, our service was very good, it's a bank holiday weekend, 20 minutes is pretty bloody good for a full two meal and drinks, we make everything you know, we don't just take orders, why couldn't you have just not left a tip?
"I'd pay you a pound"
"You didn't even say anyth-... A pound? what?!..."

This was where I realised I was to get nowhere. Not only did I have to borrow a pen from a nearby shop (despite being a waiter, you say? I know...) but I didn't have my mobile so I couldn't call the real rozzers for back-up.

There was no possible way I'd be able to convince her that she had effectively just stolen £20 (I'd have better odds trying to teach an unborn baby the complexities of quantum mechanics), and I wasn't exactly going to roundhouse kick her to the ground.

This one was a lost cause and in the heat of the moment, blinded by rage, I was reduced to a debate about how many digits were in a mobile number.

On second thoughts, though, she did also tell me that she knew the ins and outs of the catering industry, as she was once a waitress at the Pitlochry Hotel thirty years ago.

Well, then, she must have been right.