22 December 2010

The waitress

Rosie loved to work. As soon as she saw anyone pick up a piece of paper or something to scribble with, she'd be right there at knee, ready to pick up and relay a message. No I've-got-better-things-to-do, rolling eyes or tapping foot, though the tail did bang. She'd wait, watching, no matter how long, anticipation being the spice in her life—a spice we, with our crude gulping tastes, not only don't appreciate, but revile–and neatly drop the note in the lap of intended, even if she had to jump up to the lap to deliver. Or if the intended were especially dull and unobservant, shove that note, preceded by a cold wet nose, into a hand.

This is an old pre-menu I've saved. It was made just for extra work, to give her the job of carrying a full menu later. She would have also liked a wine list, at least.

The tip, to her, was the joy of giving.


Lucy said...

Oh bless her!

Molly always has to bring her collar to me when Tom takes it off in the evening while he's having his early evening drink, then she goes back and finds he's dropped a crisp on the floor. I tried getting her to take messages down the garden but she lacked the concentration!

Have a very happy Christmas, and love and best wishes for 2011. So glad I found you here.

anna tambour said...

Molly might have other things on her mind. What stories she could tell, if only we could understand.

As for you, the love is mutual. You're an utter delight.