A jolly old fella, bald as a coot, covered in liver spots was frying up some chips while I waited at the weekend. My face kinda naturally falls into, not a scowl as such, but the corners of my mouth dip down, so even when I have a blank expression I don’t look like I’m particularly happy.
And without pausing for me to reply to any of it, he said, “Cheer up, young man. It might never happen. Who is she, anyway? You’re better off without her! Scraps?”
It interests me how we, as a species, have developed a way of asking personal questions to complete strangers that don’t seem particularly intrusive.
I didn’t say anything in reply to the majority of what he said, just a quick smile and a “No, thanks” regarding the scraps.
(As far as I know, scraps might well be a local term; so I dunno if people in other parts of Britain, let alone outside the UK, know what they are. They’re small bits of fried batter that, I assume, fall off the fish, and in chip shops around here, are put to one side, ready to be sprinkled on top of your chips. Kinda like a crunchy, cholesterolly garnish.)