badinage is still my middle name

Coffee with Giovanna in the Aroma Cafe on Abbey Street.
Dublin all Septemberish.
Place full of sexalacious babes trying on their feminity for size.
This year's girls.
They've just started college.
And they're anxious to give the equipment a few test runs.
Giovanna is not in good form.
Me checking out the studenty talent might not be helping matters.
The young sexors are not really of interest to me.
As a social diarest I have a duty to keep an eye on such things.
I am merely collecting information.
Material.
For my files, you understand.
Giovanna is complaining as is her wont about the service in Irish cafes.
"I don't understand it," she tells me. "Why don't they have a waiter who comes to your table and serves you?"
Well bold readers.
No one insults the cafes of my country without at least getting the benefit of some Aristotelian Platonic neo Heelarian retort.
Nemo me impune lacessit, as the ancient Romans used to say when anyone complained about the service.
The mighty Heelers sat back in his chair.
"At least it's better than Italian cafes," I proffered forthrightly. "In Italian cafes the waiters come to the table just in order to treat you like dirt."
Giovanna tossed her fiery locks.
Her hair I mean.
It has a reddish hue.
Not actually on fire though.
"That wouldn't happen to you," she charged, "if you didn't insist on going only to touristy places. If you'd go to a proper Italian cafe you'd get real service."
"I can't go to proper Italian cafes," I rallied. "They're all full of Mafiosi."
Giovanna tossed her locks again.
I ducked.
One of em nearly nicked my ear and pinged the wall right behind me.
"That's prejudice," she pronounced. "If you go everywhere with that sort of prejudice you're never going to be happy."
"I'm not prejudiced against the Mafia," shot back Ireland's greatest living poet. "I'm just scared of them."
Giovanna eyes shone with deep emotion but she remained silent.
I knew that at this moment she was savouring my friendship as never before.