Burning bridges

I apologise if most of my writings seem to revolve around my ongoing Wi-Fi problem, but it appears that most incidents in my life at the moment do revolve around Wi-Fi. This latest incident is no exception. Even though I have now been in my newly adopted hometown for almost two weeks, I still haven’t sussed out the complete opening hours of my preferred hotspot and found myself again facing closed doors. By the time I reach the other alternative, I thought I might as well treat myself to the calzone, which had been so delicious the previous week. As I surfed the web in my usual manner, I noticed that my order was taking slightly longer than expected but thought nothing of it. However, when it did eventually arrive, it was slightly burnt. Again I thought nothing of it. I was about halfway through my meal when I realized the raw egg milling about in the calzone.  At what point I thought it would be a good idea to query this at the bar, full of regular customers, I’m not sure. Nonetheless I headed up to the bar, almost tripping over my own bag in the process, and queried the curious case of the raw egg. The stunned silence that took over the bar made me wonder whether I’d actually told the waitress that I hated France and all things French. What followed was an awkward conversation where she tried to blag that the egg was supposed to be raw and I tried to explain that I wasn’t too bothered but didn’t want her to re heat it. The result of the exchange was that I ended up with ice cream and the hatred of the clientele. I wolfed down the ice cream, finished my emails and paid for what I thought was half a calzone, a beer and ice cream.  I trudged home, tail between my legs, asking myself whether I’d incurred the wrath of the locals for a legitimate reason. You be the judge.