I’m in a subway restaurant in a pedestrianised high street somewhere. We’ve wondered in for food before seeing a show. As well as the people I know, there’s also a group of us from the bus. We’ve been to a Subway before but not this particular one, and we all stare at the counter trying to work out which is the queue end and which is the assembly end. I don’t even know why I’m in the queue as I’m waving a supermarket chicken sub around. A tall round man with an acoustic guitar, bushy beard and round glasses looks at us and storms off. The sandwich artist asks if it was us that upset that man. I say that he’s in our coach party but I don’t know him. I order Swedish meatballs. He hands it to me and tells me that I can add any extras from the baskets behind me. After looking at it, I hand it back to him. ‘Are you sure?’ he asks. ‘You could add some mushrooms or some Tegena?’ I look again at the proffered sandwich and place two uncooked mushrooms and some dried biscuit herbal bread inside it, then I hand it back to him and he begins to wrap it up.
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