conquest of a cafe on the planet of the jackanapes

 

"Will you be eating in Sir?" a the peremptory manageress at Newbridge Silverware with an air of disdain.

I think she's married to the owner.

"No I'll be eating outside," and as I say this, I'm thinking to myself: "If eating outside means you won't start looking for vaccine passports and making illegal intrusive enquiries about my personal bodily health."

"Okay Sir. Now I have to ask you for your name and phone number for contact tracing."

I sigh deeply.

Contact tracing means they can call me if the government wish to bolster societal panic by claiming there's been a sudden outbreak of the Flu centred on that cafe.

"My name is William F Buckley," I tell her. "And my phone number is..."

I made up a phone number.

The thought struck me.

Who will I be tomorrow?

How about if I say: "It's an Irish name, Fionn Laherne. I'll spell it for you. F-o-g-h-o-r-n L-e-g-h-o-r-n."

Somewhere the ghost of Foghorn Leghorn would be saying: "Boy, I say boy, why are you using my name there boy?"

Or maybe we'll give Walt Whitman a run.

I am a bit of a Walt Whitman anyway.

And on Wednesday why not John Carpenter in his Dark Star days. (I'd be Ted Kotcheff but that sounds like a name somebody made up.)

Thursday I'm going to self identify as Ronald Coleman.

Friday I'll be Montie Baines.

Best not to completely eschew the classics.