Boiled sheep's heads
As it's his last night, I tell S he can choose whatever he wants - and of course he calls my bluff, and opts for the sheep's heads, and after a bit of stamping my feet, I ....
Then I give in, and say OK...
So then it's his turn to absolutely refuse... hahahahahahahahaha!!!
We're plagued by the touts, who try and find out what nationality we are - for me, their selling points are Rick Stein, Jamie Oliver and the Marks and Spencer of food stalls. When they squeeze out of S that he's from Oz, they're in overdrive: G'diy, mite! Put another shrimp on the barbie, dingo baby, Neighbours is shit!!
We end up at the M&S of outdoor restaurants, bearing a startling resemblance to the rest, and order brochettes of mixed meat, chicken and vegetables. The bill is already building - bowls of salads, and flat bread appear while we wait - and again, you can't refuse them - and again, why should you? The night is warm, if overcast, and it's wonderful to be eating outside under the flaring lights, especially in February.
After a while, we're joined on our bench by a real throwback to the days of Empire. My earlier thought is manifest in a particularly stalwart English lady, of uncertain age and income, a well-seasoned traveller, with suitably exotic tales to match. I never did ask her name, and she's so garrulous, she makes me look as if I've taken a vow of silence... Very entertaining, a right ole cheapskate, totting up her bill several times before admitting defeat, yes, a little of her went a long way, but someone you wouldn't want to miss.