there is a wonderful establishment on the other side of the road from our flat called ‘millenium’, who’s primary source of income is the cooking and selling of fried chicken based foods - as well as their speciality, “the 99p tripledecker”.
the young gentleman who works in said poultry outlet is increasing becoming accustomed to serving my flatmate and i under the influence of alcohol (we are, not him. frying chicken pissed is a dangerous sport, don’t try it).
last night, realising that he recognises us, i tried to spark up a conversation with him, but by definition of being in millenium, i was a little bladdered after the deepend “1 year on, and still wankered” gathering in the Griffin (named 2nd most ‘authentic pub’ in london by Vogue magazine!!?), and i think my wonderfully eloquent introduction came out something like “du mhust be jetting yousht to sheeing ush djrunk”.
he just smiled, and nodded.
i took my chicken, 99p burgers, can of sprite and chips and left the building.
oh, and happy birthday de-construct.
