Mr Longacre raised his head from the pages of the complementary Irish Times which he wasn't so much as reading as hiding behind. He'd assumed they must have a raft of Patrick's and Michael's stay at their establishment on a regular basis given the amount of copies on offer in the hotel foyer, just that none had booked in today or if they had were still in bed, or worse - illiterate. Maybe all the English titles had been stolen by German guests in retaliation for losing both world wars? They'd certainly garnered a bad reputation for putting towels out on sun loungers though whether that was accurate or not he'd never known and frankly didn't care to find out. The most likely explanation, which is also often the simplest, was that he'd enjoyed a rare lay-in and come down to breakfast far too late. There was more than evidence to support such a theory, like the lack of options for his breakfast. Halfway through his cornflakes and glass of orange juice, he'd taken pause to wonder why he'd chosen the particularly odd combination which was now battling away in his mouth for unwanted attention in a manner that annoyed him greatly just like when his children had been younger and fought over control of the TV remote. Still it would hopefully do him until lunch. In fact it would have to do.
A cough interrupted him from his study of the papers photos and as he lowered it to see to whom it belonged his eyes were trained upon a more than ample bosom which was straining against a standard white issue blouse that had probably been issued a size too small by a perverted hotel manager or she'd inadvertently shrunk it in the wash. His eyes quickly darted up to her face as he tried his best to remain a gentleman and they rested upon the poor young girl's face which would have been vastly improved if she was to be stung by a swarm of wasps in the next 20 seconds. Oh dear, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away in equal measures.
“You like I get you anything else meester?” She asked him in an accent he suspected was from the far eastern plains of Europe. Highly unlikely to be Russian, most likely Ukrainian. He didn't ask for fear she might answer and tell him all of her life story. He took advantage of the time it took to fold his newspaper and reposition himself in the low leather sofa in which he sat to propose that “a cup of tea wouldn't go amiss if that wasn't too much trouble to ask for please?”
Presumably it wasn't as she scribbled on the little pad resting in her hand. “You like the warm bread to go with?”
Warm bread he thought to himself still trying not to look at either her heaving chest or her face that looked like a dog's chewed toy. “Oh you mean toast? Oh yes, if that's not too much trouble, yes please that would be most agreeable.”
“And you want the white one's or the not white one's?”
“White would be fine, thank you.”
“And you like…” and here the poor girl paused, probably trying to remember the English for jam which shouldn't be the hardest word to remember but he supposed like the rest of us she was merely doing the best she could.
“Jam?” He enquired helpfully when her memory appeared to have failed her.
“Ah jam!” She exclaimed and giggled at her own forgetfulness which made Mr Longacre smile.
“That would be lovely. Thank you ever so much, that's very kind,” and he quickly glanced at her face and she smiled at him as if to say you're nice, I like that you don't stare at my breasts like all the other English pigs and she slipped the pen and pad into her pinafore and toddled off somewhere behind him to get him his tea, toast and jam presumably without added spit.
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