It’s
time to take down our beer festival. We all arrive on Sunday morning tired and
hungover but ready to start packing our equipment away. There’s a subway
sandwich shop in the venue but they’re not open; the lady is only there to
clean up from yesterday. Someone points out that there’s another branch just
around the corner but they stop serving breakfast soon. I race over and join
the queue. As I become the first but one to be served, a thin elderly woman
with white hair approaches and asks to cut in. I say no but the line outvotes
me and lets her cut in. When it’s my turn to be served the Hispanic-speaking
lady isn’t really serving subs; she’s got a large pile of slop consisting of
bacon, sausage and baked beans which she just ladles into bread rolls. I try to
get money off with my loyalty card but for some reason the till won’t let me so
I just pay on my card. On the way back to the venue a work colleague spots me
and asks if she can help. As she asks me to wait for her I decide to put my
wallet in the glove box of my car, so I put my sandwich and coffee down on the
pavement to sort this out. As I lock up a bunch of kids show up. One of them
kicks my coffee cup up the pavement while the other picks up my sandwich and
lobs it across the road onto the roof of someone’s porch. The man of the house
opens the door. He has short white hair and a tall but thin face and reaches up
for the sandwich and hands it to me.
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