Oh, sod it. Who am I kidding?
I just got ID'd. Properly ID'd. Not just a cursory eyebrow lift: a full blown, "show me your passport or you can't have a drink" IDing, and it wasn't a chat-up line at all because it was conducted with an air of distinct grumpiness. He didn't spend years building a restaurant empire, the manager said as I stared at him in shocked silence, so that some jumped up teenager could come and get his livelihood taken away from him.
"So show me your passport," he repeated. "Or you can order a coke."
"Teenager?" I spluttered eventually.
He narrowed his eyes at me.
"Or driving license," he growled.
"Jumped up teenager?"
The manager glared at me. This conversation could go on for some time: he could tell.
"Do you want your pizza?" he snapped. "Because you can leave without that too if you want."
"No, no," I said hurriedly, shining at him. "I don't want the drink, thanks. I don't think I need one anymore."
And you know what? It's got no damn relevance to anyone other than me, so it shouldn't be on my blog at all. But - frankly - I'm twenty seven, and the chances of that ever happening to me again are pretty much zero. So I'm going to smugly bathe in the glory for just a little while longer. (And possibly move into a candlelit Italian restaurant on the outskirts of Watford permanently.)
The clocks might have lost us an hour yesterday, but - what with living with my father, having no job, no money and a disastrous love-life - I appear to be moving in the opposite direction. Which can only be a good thing.
After the 7.5 disaster, at least I've got a few extra years left in me now to improve my rating.
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