A little bit of soap...

Saturday seemed to take very long to get here this week.  But isn't that always the way when you are excited about something you have booked?  The tickets for Bat out of Hell, the Musical, were bought way back in January, and as Saturday got closer and closer, I am sure I have been more and more boring to be around, humming, '...but I won't do that', under my breath.

It was an eventful day (I would have been disappointed if it hadn't been) and didn't start too well with a cancelled train to Paddington and the whole of the British Army and Navy on the move towards Twickenham.  Instead of a 29 minute journey into the centre of London, we were on the bloody train for almost two hours.  Mind you, we learned a few ribald songs on the way there, and it gave Mrs S and I a chance to catch up.  I hadn't seen her for a whole fifty three hours, so there was much to discuss...

By the time we met up with the other reprobates in Covent Garden, there was just enough time for a bite to eat and several drinks before hailing a couple of those daft bike rickshaws to get us to the theatre. This seemed a really good idea for several reasons. 

1. None of us had any clue where the theatre was.

2 It was very hot, and exercise after red wine is never a good combination.

3. It looked fun, and The Mother had never been in one(as far as she could remember).

4. £5 seemed like a fair price for a sit down on a hot and sunny Saturday.

So off we went in convoy through the busy streets of London.  There was some mild abuse targeted towards some flag-waving demonstrators who hindered our journey (I vaguely remember telling some of the closer ones to go and find somewhere quieter to shout) and then we ended up in a pedestrianised area, full of pretty bars and shops.

Out of the corner of my eye, I happened to spot a young chap with a wicker basket of what I thought was pistachio fudge.  Catching his eye as we sailed past, he threw me one which I caught (no mean feat in itself as a) we were moving b) I had no glasses on and c) I was trolleyed).

I had just popped it into my mouth and bitten down on it, when the generous soul who had launched it at me shouted at the retreating back end of our rickshaw, 'It's not for eating!'

So what was it?  Soap.  It was soap.  Not only that, but it was in a shiny cellophane wrapper, so I got a good gob full of that too. Having tasted the soap, I now understand why that crazy British custom of 'washing your mouth out' has fizzled out.  It was bloody horrible (and not a whiff of pistachio) and I spent the next ten minutes trying to rid myself of the taste.

Trying to justify my abject stupidity, I moaned to Mrs S as to how stupid it was for a restaurant to be throwing bits of soap at people.

'It wasn't a restaurant!' Mrs S managed through the tears of laughter (such a support she's always been in my life).  'It was a soap shop'.

She was still laughing about it on the two hour train journey home.

I may have to rethink the 'best friend' label she has had for the last thirty years or so...