Heya,
I really want to tell you something.
I dont want this to be an "annoying" email-I just want you to know a few things, thats all.
Firstly I am glad that we are "talking" again-I know we always
were...but you know what I mean.
Even though I was mad at you and very 'hurt' by you I still sometimes
missed you ...and I know that you would have missed me
too..
You know what really makes me laugh though; it is that you knew
EXACTLY how to push my buttons-and you did it all the time. Yes, you
have told me that you had been hurt 1000 times and that you had "built
a wall around your heart" etc, but I NEVER offended you or put you
down- infact I always tried to talk you up-but you always belittled
me, even if you didnt know.
Please dont take this as a 'personal attack', I dont want to offend
you, I just want you to know a few things. I figured that with both of
us being stubborn and proud one of us needed to clear the air, and I
knew it wouldnt be you. (that was a joke.)
Also, I really appreciate what you emailed me the other day, where
you wrote that if I ever needed someone to talk to I could approach
you-I think that was really nice and mature of you.
Please write back...if not I am pretty happy with you just knowing
Caroline
(written 28th May, 2008)
Thursday 30 April 2009
Tuesday 28 April 2009
Coffee House Conversation: An Interview With George Middleton
Coffee House Conversation:
An Interview with George Middleton
The coffee house was bustling. I glanced the room for my victim. Aha! He watched as I approached, one eye lifted from the front page of the Herald. I took note of the plate before him; crumbs, dirty plastic cutlery and a cardboard coffee cup sporting only residue. “Great, he has finished…”
“Hi my name is Caroline.”
“George Middleton.”
We shook hands. My palms were sweating and George noticed. I think.
“Umm, I need to conduct an interview with a stranger for my assignment, so do you have some time to spare?”
“Yeah sure I am just relaxing”
He was seated upright, obviously anxious.
“Do I need to sign anything? What is it about? How long will it take?”
“Yes I have a form for you to sign, it can be about anything and it won’t take more than 10 minutes.”
I did not have a copy of the form. Luckily, he never asked for it.
“Okay sure”
“Look I don’t have any questions prepared because I didn’t know who I would be interviewing. I guess that I am kind of an amateur.”
I attempted to be funny. He attempted to laugh.
“So what would you like me to tell you?”
“Anything”
“Okay, I will start with my time in Australia”
“I knew that you weren’t from here, you are English aren’t you?”
I had no idea what I wanted to or would achieve through conducting this interview, so I just listened sharply, armed with an even sharper pencil and a notepad made from 100% recycled paper.
“I was born in the south of Dublin in 1939.”
Ah, so it was an Irish accent.
“I moved to Australia in 1963 with nothing but ten pounds in my pocket. Jobs were easy to obtain though, after all I had a good education and had been a banker for seven-and-a-half years.”
I tried my best to make questions out of every detail.
“Yeah I would guess for Anglo Europeans it would have been easy, with the backing of the White Australia Policy.”
“Uhhh anyway, my first job in Australia was in a fibreglass filter company. It was a small factory in Mortdale.”
“Oh Mortdale, where did you live?”
“Bexley”
Suddenly he leant back into his chair, looking as though he was enjoying himself.
I calculated his age in my head, coming to the conclusion that he would have been too young to serve in World War II…
“Did you fight in Vietnam?”
“No I was too old, I was about twenty nine or thirty. I guess I missed out.”
He smiled.
“So you mean in a humorous way, like a pun, like you did not really want to go and you didn’t have to because of your age.”
“Yeah that’s right.”
Silence, but still the bustling of the coffee house…
“My next job was delivering orange juice in and around the city for six months. Then I worked at ANZ bank for two years. I started off as a teller then I became involved more complex stuff’.”
He prided himself on the word “complex”. I questioned it.
“Mortgaging. You know, stuff at the back”
He did not have much more to tell.
.
Change the subject, Caroline!
“Are you married?”
There was that smile again.
“Yes, in fact I met my wife while working at the bank, she was a client.My youngest [daughter] was born in 1973. She has two kids. My eldest was born in 1971. She is not married but she is a medical researcher for UNSW.”
Sometimes I did not completely hear what George was saying. I did not know whether it was because his tone was low, or whether the bustling of the coffee house muffled it.
“I went to Macquarie University to get a degree in accounting. I didn’t work for those three years. The kids had just started school and my wife had just finished uni. She actually worked at Macquarie, specialising in…umm…you know with kids…”
“Kids with special needs?”
“Yeah that’s it. She specialised in children with learning disabilities.”
George did not work during the time he studied. His wife was the breadwinner. I found myself becoming inspired as it was the 70’s, feminism was rife, and here was a young mother with two children working and supporting her family.
“It was really difficult working as an accountant once I had my degree. I worked as a manager but I had no practical experience, as they never taught management roles at uni. They [the workers] never listened to me. You needed to be extra hard headed if you wanted to get your point across.”
George’s story went back and forth. I just listened as the memories flooded his brain and expelled through his mouth.
Suddenly we were back in 1968, before his daughters were born. George and his wife had just bought their home in Epping. During this time they established and ran their own business, “but it was a disaster.”
“Oh, what business was it? Was it an accounting business?”
“No, it was a boarding house in Bondi.”
Interesting.
“How many people could the boarding house capacitate?”
“Twenty.”
A mental image of 20 young hippies smoking inordinate amounts of marijuana within George’s boarding house inundated my brain.
His mind seemed to be ambling too, as he took brief pauses in between each sentence to think about the next.
“…the sheets were changed once a week. We had one common room with a TV, kind of like an old fashioned drawing room… we didn’t do our homework. In order to make a profit we needed to be 70% full –we were never reached over 50.”
I thanked George for his time, stood up, smiled and walked away.
Silence, but still the bustling of the coffee house.
I thought he was heading out but rather he stopped right before me, his palm placed against the strap of his backpack:
“Caroline, could I ask you a question now?”
“Yes of course”
What could he possibly want?
“Why did you approach me out of everyone here?”
“Um, well, because umm, you seemed the most approachable. Also, I personally think older people have a richer story to tell, you know? They have lived longer.”
“So what, I look old and soft?”
Laughter. Awkward Laughter.
“No, no, not at all”`
He smiled, nodded and headed towards the door.
I fixed my eyes on him as he walked. I do not know why he asked that last question, but it made me feel like he wanted to gain revenge for something that I had done to him.
I had my interview, though.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Reflection: Why did you chose your subject and where would you like to have your article published?
I had no expectations regarding my interview. It is the first time that I had conducted one with somebody I did not know so it was more of an ‘experiment’ for me than a planned project.
I chose George Middleton as he seemed the most communicative. He was merely seated in the corner of the coffee house by himself, reading his paper. Everybody else looked guarded, either studying or chatting with a group of friends. Others seemed unapproachable, dressed in business suits and looking as though they were scurrying.
George seemed rather put off/surprised when I first approached him, making me feel unsure if I made the right choice. I explained the project; even letting him read the question. He agreed to do it, but he was still very presumptuous towards my ‘assessment.’ I did not know what I wanted to ask him and he did not know what to say, so I thought it would be best I become myself, rather than an interviewer, and explained that I had never done anything like this before. At that point he put down his paper and suggested a few things he could talk to me about.
After a few minutes of question/answer I saw that he felt far more comfortable. He was leaning back into his chair, smiling at me and telling me things before I even asked.
As he was walking out he asked why I had chosen him (as I reported in the article). I did not know how to answer I did not want to place judgement on him, nor did I want to offend him. So I told him what I felt and I laughed, hoping to make it appear funny. He laughed too, but I still do not what his intentions were regarding the question.
A few days after interview I remembered that George needed to sign the slip. I mailed it to his home along with an explanation. He mailed it back promptly. I have attached the slip, along with the enevelope to my assignment. If this were to be published, I would have the envelope attached, to give the piece a authenticity as interviews are meant to be personal and real.
While writing this article I had ‘society and culture/young adult’ magazines in mind, something like fankie or Nylon. I believe that my piece suits this type of publications perfectly as I have read similar pieces within both of these magazines.
An Interview with George Middleton
The coffee house was bustling. I glanced the room for my victim. Aha! He watched as I approached, one eye lifted from the front page of the Herald. I took note of the plate before him; crumbs, dirty plastic cutlery and a cardboard coffee cup sporting only residue. “Great, he has finished…”
“Hi my name is Caroline.”
“George Middleton.”
We shook hands. My palms were sweating and George noticed. I think.
“Umm, I need to conduct an interview with a stranger for my assignment, so do you have some time to spare?”
“Yeah sure I am just relaxing”
He was seated upright, obviously anxious.
“Do I need to sign anything? What is it about? How long will it take?”
“Yes I have a form for you to sign, it can be about anything and it won’t take more than 10 minutes.”
I did not have a copy of the form. Luckily, he never asked for it.
“Okay sure”
“Look I don’t have any questions prepared because I didn’t know who I would be interviewing. I guess that I am kind of an amateur.”
I attempted to be funny. He attempted to laugh.
“So what would you like me to tell you?”
“Anything”
“Okay, I will start with my time in Australia”
“I knew that you weren’t from here, you are English aren’t you?”
I had no idea what I wanted to or would achieve through conducting this interview, so I just listened sharply, armed with an even sharper pencil and a notepad made from 100% recycled paper.
“I was born in the south of Dublin in 1939.”
Ah, so it was an Irish accent.
“I moved to Australia in 1963 with nothing but ten pounds in my pocket. Jobs were easy to obtain though, after all I had a good education and had been a banker for seven-and-a-half years.”
I tried my best to make questions out of every detail.
“Yeah I would guess for Anglo Europeans it would have been easy, with the backing of the White Australia Policy.”
“Uhhh anyway, my first job in Australia was in a fibreglass filter company. It was a small factory in Mortdale.”
“Oh Mortdale, where did you live?”
“Bexley”
Suddenly he leant back into his chair, looking as though he was enjoying himself.
I calculated his age in my head, coming to the conclusion that he would have been too young to serve in World War II…
“Did you fight in Vietnam?”
“No I was too old, I was about twenty nine or thirty. I guess I missed out.”
He smiled.
“So you mean in a humorous way, like a pun, like you did not really want to go and you didn’t have to because of your age.”
“Yeah that’s right.”
Silence, but still the bustling of the coffee house…
“My next job was delivering orange juice in and around the city for six months. Then I worked at ANZ bank for two years. I started off as a teller then I became involved more complex stuff’.”
He prided himself on the word “complex”. I questioned it.
“Mortgaging. You know, stuff at the back”
He did not have much more to tell.
.
Change the subject, Caroline!
“Are you married?”
There was that smile again.
“Yes, in fact I met my wife while working at the bank, she was a client.My youngest [daughter] was born in 1973. She has two kids. My eldest was born in 1971. She is not married but she is a medical researcher for UNSW.”
Sometimes I did not completely hear what George was saying. I did not know whether it was because his tone was low, or whether the bustling of the coffee house muffled it.
“I went to Macquarie University to get a degree in accounting. I didn’t work for those three years. The kids had just started school and my wife had just finished uni. She actually worked at Macquarie, specialising in…umm…you know with kids…”
“Kids with special needs?”
“Yeah that’s it. She specialised in children with learning disabilities.”
George did not work during the time he studied. His wife was the breadwinner. I found myself becoming inspired as it was the 70’s, feminism was rife, and here was a young mother with two children working and supporting her family.
“It was really difficult working as an accountant once I had my degree. I worked as a manager but I had no practical experience, as they never taught management roles at uni. They [the workers] never listened to me. You needed to be extra hard headed if you wanted to get your point across.”
George’s story went back and forth. I just listened as the memories flooded his brain and expelled through his mouth.
Suddenly we were back in 1968, before his daughters were born. George and his wife had just bought their home in Epping. During this time they established and ran their own business, “but it was a disaster.”
“Oh, what business was it? Was it an accounting business?”
“No, it was a boarding house in Bondi.”
Interesting.
“How many people could the boarding house capacitate?”
“Twenty.”
A mental image of 20 young hippies smoking inordinate amounts of marijuana within George’s boarding house inundated my brain.
His mind seemed to be ambling too, as he took brief pauses in between each sentence to think about the next.
“…the sheets were changed once a week. We had one common room with a TV, kind of like an old fashioned drawing room… we didn’t do our homework. In order to make a profit we needed to be 70% full –we were never reached over 50.”
I thanked George for his time, stood up, smiled and walked away.
Silence, but still the bustling of the coffee house.
I thought he was heading out but rather he stopped right before me, his palm placed against the strap of his backpack:
“Caroline, could I ask you a question now?”
“Yes of course”
What could he possibly want?
“Why did you approach me out of everyone here?”
“Um, well, because umm, you seemed the most approachable. Also, I personally think older people have a richer story to tell, you know? They have lived longer.”
“So what, I look old and soft?”
Laughter. Awkward Laughter.
“No, no, not at all”`
He smiled, nodded and headed towards the door.
I fixed my eyes on him as he walked. I do not know why he asked that last question, but it made me feel like he wanted to gain revenge for something that I had done to him.
I had my interview, though.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Reflection: Why did you chose your subject and where would you like to have your article published?
I had no expectations regarding my interview. It is the first time that I had conducted one with somebody I did not know so it was more of an ‘experiment’ for me than a planned project.
I chose George Middleton as he seemed the most communicative. He was merely seated in the corner of the coffee house by himself, reading his paper. Everybody else looked guarded, either studying or chatting with a group of friends. Others seemed unapproachable, dressed in business suits and looking as though they were scurrying.
George seemed rather put off/surprised when I first approached him, making me feel unsure if I made the right choice. I explained the project; even letting him read the question. He agreed to do it, but he was still very presumptuous towards my ‘assessment.’ I did not know what I wanted to ask him and he did not know what to say, so I thought it would be best I become myself, rather than an interviewer, and explained that I had never done anything like this before. At that point he put down his paper and suggested a few things he could talk to me about.
After a few minutes of question/answer I saw that he felt far more comfortable. He was leaning back into his chair, smiling at me and telling me things before I even asked.
As he was walking out he asked why I had chosen him (as I reported in the article). I did not know how to answer I did not want to place judgement on him, nor did I want to offend him. So I told him what I felt and I laughed, hoping to make it appear funny. He laughed too, but I still do not what his intentions were regarding the question.
A few days after interview I remembered that George needed to sign the slip. I mailed it to his home along with an explanation. He mailed it back promptly. I have attached the slip, along with the enevelope to my assignment. If this were to be published, I would have the envelope attached, to give the piece a authenticity as interviews are meant to be personal and real.
While writing this article I had ‘society and culture/young adult’ magazines in mind, something like fankie or Nylon. I believe that my piece suits this type of publications perfectly as I have read similar pieces within both of these magazines.
Monday 6 April 2009
The Living Room That Has Never Been Lived In
Decorations left over from Christmas remain behind the blinds. It is now April. The stereo system sits upon a cabinet made from what seems to be ancient sand stone, which has a chip in the top left hand corner. I remember when we first moved in the removalists thought that they had broken it. When they apologised mum laughed, telling them that it was “meant to be like that.” They laughed back at mum, questioning why she would buy something that is broken. The DVD shelf is always messy. It hold too many things, none of which are DVDs. Mum has asked me to tidy it up so many times, which I still haven’t got around to doing. My friend Jack always makes fun of the chairs on my dining room table, calling them “masking taped”. This is because they are wrapped in beige leather straps, which resembles masking tape. The table that they surround is made of glass, which sits on four marble slabs. It is a really unusual dining table, so unusual in fact that we aren’t allowed to eat dinner on it, not even on special occasions. Standing near the table is a sand stone giraffe.
My grandmother hates it. She tells me that having animal statues in your house means that you are inviting the devil. We haven’t had any visits so far.
My grandmother hates it. She tells me that having animal statues in your house means that you are inviting the devil. We haven’t had any visits so far.
She Just Kept Stirring
I can’t remember whether it was in the realm of quantum physics or anthropology where I heard the phrase “you can’t observe something without changing whatever you are observing.” I wandered whether Mel would work “differently” while I watched her from the corner of the bustling café during lunch. But she didn’t. She even forgot that I was there; serving the same customers from the various levels of the Innovations building, including me, the young girl who worked on level 2.
As I approached Innocravings café to begin my fieldwork (as I will call it) I spotted Mel serving three old women who were seated outside. They appeared to be dressed in their Sunday best, sporting pearls, gloves and lace collars. Each one of them were holding their mugs up towards their mouths, taking a loud sip every now and then, allowing their red lip stick to stain the white glass. Each lady looked absolutely 'fabulous', nibbling away at her cookie, losing crumbs amid her white chin hair. Mel was smiling pleasantly at them, making small talk as she wiped their table clean, just as they had demanded.
A passer by was nice enough to open the large entrance door for Mel, as she balanced a pile of dirty dishes between the palms of her hands and her chin. She plonked them onto the bench for Michael, the boss, to take inside to be washed. Mel’s smile also washed away as she leaned her body back and stretched out her hand to grab the large garbage bag, taking it out to the huge industrial bin. I considered following her, but decided not to, thinking that I may lose my seat.
Despite the passing through of numerous customers all conversations remained pretty much the same:
Man with beard: How much is the red curry?
Mel: $5.80 thanks
Man with beard: Umm, can I please pay you tomorrow?
Mel: Yeah okay, I’ll put it on your tab. Neeeeext!
Man in suit: What is in this salad?
Mel: Ricotta cheese, pumpkin and English spinach
Man in suit: how much?
Mel: small or large?
Man in suit: How much are each?
Mel: the small is $4.80 and the large is $5.60
Man in suit ponders for a log while
Mel: Sir please move aside.
Man moves out of the queue, still contemplating
…
This lunchtime fiasco actually made me feel rather peckish so I walked up to the canteen, raising my arm to grab Mel’s attention. “How’s it going?” “I don’t know, Ill let you know when I finish the article.” “Sorry I’m so boring” she exclaimed. I suddenly asked her to wait, running back to my table to grab my note pad. I didn’t want to miss a word. “I’m so hungry.” “What would you like?” she responded. “Uh the usual please, with balsamic vinegar.” She filled up a plastic container to the brim (how I like it) with cubed pumpkin and ricotta cheese. I paid for my salad, receiving change of 50c. I requested that it be put towards my tab at which Mel laughed. “Is that all your going to pay off today?” “Yeah, I can’t afford any more than this anyway.” She laughed a little more.
My friend Jack recognised my bag and sunglasses placed solitarily on the chair and table, indicating that they had been reserved. Naturally he offered himself a seat, although I was unsure whether I wanted company while conducting my “fieldwork”. “What are you doing?” he asked when he saw my pencil case and note pad. I explained the assignment. “Isn’t that a little stalker-ish?” “Nu nu she has signed a permission slip, its legit.”
At that moment two tall men strolled into the café. They appeared rather sharp; wearing tailored black suits, leather shoes and what I envisioned as Burberry watches. I could tell that Mel was also taken back. Rather than asking them right off what they “would like” (as she had to every other customer) she allowed them plenty of time. I focused on this scenario, trying to think of something “interesting” to write for my assignment, for which I was becoming desperate. I came up with this: A husband in the 1950’s spontaneously bringing home a work colleague home for dinner. The wife would be expected to serve dinner of course (in this case it was Mel), while staying out of their way. After all, they would probably be engaging in intelligent work conversations that woman had no business in! I looked over to what Mel was preparing for them. One man had ordered a steak sandwich with plenty of gravy and the other had asked for a roast beef roll drenched in barbeque sauce. She held the leg-of-lamb with her little pitchfork, shoving the meat between two buns. “Very hyper masculine” I thought to myself. I realise that my little metaphoric “tale” is probably a result of looking in too deep and sounds absurd, but I couldn’t help it, I needed something interesting to write about this very mundane lunch hour at Innocravings.
By this time Kristina had also pulled up a chair to join Jack and I, who had explained why I was taking notes. “What type of assign…” I ignored Kristina once I saw one of the old ladies from outside calling over to Mel from the coffee counter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they seemed dispersed in their conversation. When she left I walked over asking what they had just conversed about. “Oh she had a special request." “Care to share?” I asked. She laughed asking if I was serious. “Yeah, of course, I need every detail!” “Well she asked to not have the ice cream in her milk shake blended.” She was laughing by now, concluding that I must have been very bored to reduce my assignment to such minor, insignificant details.
“She is just stirring…and stirring…and stirring,” repeated Jack as I sat at my table devouring my lunch. I asked him to keep an eye out for me while I ate. “Hey why don’t you write that the guy that she is serving asks her out?” “They would so know that it is made up” I replied, although I was a little tempted to make up something in the essence of excitement. “Well then, I am sure that the marker would be interested to know that she just kept stirring…and stirring…and stirring…”
As I approached Innocravings café to begin my fieldwork (as I will call it) I spotted Mel serving three old women who were seated outside. They appeared to be dressed in their Sunday best, sporting pearls, gloves and lace collars. Each one of them were holding their mugs up towards their mouths, taking a loud sip every now and then, allowing their red lip stick to stain the white glass. Each lady looked absolutely 'fabulous', nibbling away at her cookie, losing crumbs amid her white chin hair. Mel was smiling pleasantly at them, making small talk as she wiped their table clean, just as they had demanded.
A passer by was nice enough to open the large entrance door for Mel, as she balanced a pile of dirty dishes between the palms of her hands and her chin. She plonked them onto the bench for Michael, the boss, to take inside to be washed. Mel’s smile also washed away as she leaned her body back and stretched out her hand to grab the large garbage bag, taking it out to the huge industrial bin. I considered following her, but decided not to, thinking that I may lose my seat.
Despite the passing through of numerous customers all conversations remained pretty much the same:
Man with beard: How much is the red curry?
Mel: $5.80 thanks
Man with beard: Umm, can I please pay you tomorrow?
Mel: Yeah okay, I’ll put it on your tab. Neeeeext!
Man in suit: What is in this salad?
Mel: Ricotta cheese, pumpkin and English spinach
Man in suit: how much?
Mel: small or large?
Man in suit: How much are each?
Mel: the small is $4.80 and the large is $5.60
Man in suit ponders for a log while
Mel: Sir please move aside.
Man moves out of the queue, still contemplating
…
This lunchtime fiasco actually made me feel rather peckish so I walked up to the canteen, raising my arm to grab Mel’s attention. “How’s it going?” “I don’t know, Ill let you know when I finish the article.” “Sorry I’m so boring” she exclaimed. I suddenly asked her to wait, running back to my table to grab my note pad. I didn’t want to miss a word. “I’m so hungry.” “What would you like?” she responded. “Uh the usual please, with balsamic vinegar.” She filled up a plastic container to the brim (how I like it) with cubed pumpkin and ricotta cheese. I paid for my salad, receiving change of 50c. I requested that it be put towards my tab at which Mel laughed. “Is that all your going to pay off today?” “Yeah, I can’t afford any more than this anyway.” She laughed a little more.
My friend Jack recognised my bag and sunglasses placed solitarily on the chair and table, indicating that they had been reserved. Naturally he offered himself a seat, although I was unsure whether I wanted company while conducting my “fieldwork”. “What are you doing?” he asked when he saw my pencil case and note pad. I explained the assignment. “Isn’t that a little stalker-ish?” “Nu nu she has signed a permission slip, its legit.”
At that moment two tall men strolled into the café. They appeared rather sharp; wearing tailored black suits, leather shoes and what I envisioned as Burberry watches. I could tell that Mel was also taken back. Rather than asking them right off what they “would like” (as she had to every other customer) she allowed them plenty of time. I focused on this scenario, trying to think of something “interesting” to write for my assignment, for which I was becoming desperate. I came up with this: A husband in the 1950’s spontaneously bringing home a work colleague home for dinner. The wife would be expected to serve dinner of course (in this case it was Mel), while staying out of their way. After all, they would probably be engaging in intelligent work conversations that woman had no business in! I looked over to what Mel was preparing for them. One man had ordered a steak sandwich with plenty of gravy and the other had asked for a roast beef roll drenched in barbeque sauce. She held the leg-of-lamb with her little pitchfork, shoving the meat between two buns. “Very hyper masculine” I thought to myself. I realise that my little metaphoric “tale” is probably a result of looking in too deep and sounds absurd, but I couldn’t help it, I needed something interesting to write about this very mundane lunch hour at Innocravings.
By this time Kristina had also pulled up a chair to join Jack and I, who had explained why I was taking notes. “What type of assign…” I ignored Kristina once I saw one of the old ladies from outside calling over to Mel from the coffee counter. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but they seemed dispersed in their conversation. When she left I walked over asking what they had just conversed about. “Oh she had a special request." “Care to share?” I asked. She laughed asking if I was serious. “Yeah, of course, I need every detail!” “Well she asked to not have the ice cream in her milk shake blended.” She was laughing by now, concluding that I must have been very bored to reduce my assignment to such minor, insignificant details.
“She is just stirring…and stirring…and stirring,” repeated Jack as I sat at my table devouring my lunch. I asked him to keep an eye out for me while I ate. “Hey why don’t you write that the guy that she is serving asks her out?” “They would so know that it is made up” I replied, although I was a little tempted to make up something in the essence of excitement. “Well then, I am sure that the marker would be interested to know that she just kept stirring…and stirring…and stirring…”
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