The Waiter Suggested Taking Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot Gentleman Lifted the Crying Furry Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Cut of Meat!” — Let’s wear something daring, almost like young nymphs, and head to the fanciest restaurant in town. Show ourselves off and size up the men… One of the three friends spoke with confidence — she was the headmistress of an elite, expensive private girls’ school. The job required poise, so she always had just the right clever words ready. These “nymphs” were thirty-five. The perfect age, they agreed, for short skirts and blouses designed to highlight, not hide, their assets. Plunging necklines, flawless makeup — the full battle gear. The chosen restaurant was suitably grand: chic, exclusive, and eye-wateringly expensive. Of course, they could afford it. They booked a table, settled in comfortably, and immediately began catching the admiring glances of men — and the openly frosty looks from their companions. The conversation, inevitably, revolved around men — dreams, expectations, and requirements. Each was after her ideal: tall, athletic, handsome, and, above all, wealthy. He should pamper her, fulfill every whim, never bore her with chit-chat or bog her down with chores. If he happened to have noble lineage as well — perfect. — Just not like those ones… The friends glanced knowingly at a nearby group: three cheerful, slightly stout men with receding hairlines, drinking beer, munching on crisps and mountains of steak, discussing football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, honest, and unrestrained. — Awful. — So tacky. — Ugh. The verdict was unanimous: unkempt, coarse, not a trace of class, and entirely wrong for such glamorous ladies. But then something happened that instantly changed the tone of the evening. He walked in — the man who had just pulled up in a scarlet, latest-model Ferrari. — Count Coburg Colden Saxon! — The waiter announced grandly at the entrance. The women perked up like hounds catching a fresh scent. Tall, elegant, with distinguished silver at the temples, he wore a perfectly tailored suit worth a fortune. Diamond cufflinks, a dazzling white shirt completed the look. — Oh my… — Wow… — Mmmm… Low necklines dipped even lower, their gazes openly inviting. — Now that’s a man, whispered one. — An actual count, a stunner, and a millionaire — chimed the second. I’ve dreamed of the Bahamas since I was a kid… The third said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the count’s table. They walked grandly, shooting scornful glances at other diners — especially the beer trio. The count was charming, engaging in polite society speeches about ancient family lines, castle estates, and art collections. The tension among the women rose — all knew only one would be invited to continue the evening. The arrival of food — lobsters, trays of seafood, rare vintage wine — temporarily eased the pressure. The ladies dined in style, sending dreamy glances at the count and fantasizing about much more than dinner. Their cheeks glowed, and they looked especially radiant. The count sparkled too — joking, sharing high-society stories, and none of the women cared anymore where he’d take them after the meal. The restaurant had a small garden. The aroma from the kitchen was so tempting, it drifted outside. Soon, a small, scruffy grey kitten appeared, weaving its way between tables and sitting expectantly at the count’s feet. It was all in vain. The count’s face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he shoved the kitten away with his foot. The little one tumbled several feet, right into the table leg where the three beer drinkers sat. Silence swept through the room. — I can’t stand these dirty, worthless animals, the count declared loudly. I keep pedigreed hounds and the finest horses at my castle. The waiter hurried to assure: — We’ll handle it, so sorry… He headed for the beer table, but one man was already on his feet. Huge, almost six feet tall, face flushed with anger, fists clenched. His mates tried to hold him back. Without a word, he lifted the kitten and placed it on the chair. — A plate for my furry friend! — he thundered. And your finest cut of meat. Now! The waiter paled and rushed to the kitchen as applause broke out. One of the “nymphs” stood, walked over to the giant, and said: — Make room. And order a lady a whiskey. The count was speechless. Within minutes, the two other friends joined them, gifting the count a contemptuous glare. Not everyone left the restaurant together that night. One group — a man, a woman, and a scruffy grey kitten — walked out in triumph. Time passed. Today, the first of the friends is married to that giant — owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his pals, both top lawyers. Their weddings were held on the same day. Now, the former “nymphs” have a totally different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning, with baby daughters all born within months. To freshen up, they send their husbands off for football or fishing at weekends, call the nanny, and head back to their favourite restaurant — to talk about women’s stuff. About men. As for Count Coburg Colden Saxon — a year later, he was arrested. A high-profile case — a marriage fraudster preying on unsuspecting women. Real men, happily, aren’t like that. I mean those three — with beer bellies and balding heads, with no glamour or airs, but truly honourable hearts. And that’s that. There’s really no other way.

The waiter hurried over, intent on removing the stray kitten. But a towering Englishman intercepted, scooping up the trembling little creature and settling it gently on the neighbouring chair. A plate for my feline companion! he thundered. And bring your finest beef, straight away!

Well wear something daring tonight, almost like youthful sprites, and head to that swanky restaurant. Time to put ourselves on display and see what men are worth our notice declared one of the three friends, Lucy Harrington, a sharp-tongued headmistress of an elite private school. Her position demanded poise, and she wielded clever words with effortless charm.

They were hardly girls, these spritesthirty-five and proud. To them, it was the prime age for short skirts, stylish blouses that accented more than they concealed, plunging necklines, and flawless makeupa full command of the battlefield.

The venue chosen mirrored their confidence: exclusive, ostentatious, and eye-wateringly expensive. But they could afford the luxury without a second thought. Having reserved a prime table, they made themselves comfortable, instantly soaking in admiring glances from the men and sharp daggers from their companions.

As ever, their conversation revolved around mentheir dreams, their expectations, their uncompromising standards. Each imagined her ideal: tall, athletic, handsome, and incontestably wealthy. A man who would shower her with affection, cater to every whim, keep quiet when needed, and handle no household chores. If he had noble bloodabsolute perfection.

Just not like those, please Lucy nodded discreetly towards a trio of jovial, slightly stout men with receding hairlines. Their table overflowed with pints, crisps, and towering Sunday roasts. Their discussion, punctuated by bursts of laughter, wove through football matches and fishing tripshonest, unfiltered, and loud.

Dreadful, sighed Charlotte.
So crass, tutted Emily.
Honestly
Their verdict was unanimous: rough, informal, and distinctly unworthy of three glamorous women. Then, with almost theatrical timing, the night shifted.

He strode inan imposing figure, fresh from a gleaming cherry-red Aston Martin parked out front.
Lord Henry Ashford of Berwick! announced the maître d with a flourish.

The three ladies straightened in their seats, alert like beagles catching a scent.

Tall, athletic, silver at the temples, dressed in a perfectly tailored Savile Row suit worth thousands. Diamond cufflinks winked from his sleeves; his shirt was so crisp and white, it could blind. Not a wrinkle dared mar his look.

Ohh whispered Charlotte.
Mmm breathed Emily.
Good heavens, murmured Lucy.

Their necklines dipped lower, eyes flashing with clear intent.

Thats a real man, whispered Lucy.
A lord, fit and filthy rich, Emily replied, unable to hide her excitement. Ive always dreamt of the Maldives. Ever since I was a girl

Charlotte said nothing, her gaze speaking louder than words.

Within ten minutes, they were invited to the lords table. The trio walked with regal assurance past the other guests, particularly the pints-and-crisps bunch.

Lord Ashford proved smooth as silkpolite, witty, spinning stories of ancestral homes, noble lineage, and priceless art collections. Tension simmered as each woman realised only one would receive an invitation to prolong the evening.

The mood lightened as platters arrived: lobster thermidor, tiers of seafood, and old Bordeaux. The women ate, seeking Lord Ashfords gaze and planning futures that stretched far beyond dinner. Their cheeks flushed, their charm shone.

Lord Ashford dazzled, tossing out tales from the highest circles. The friends no longer cared about the destination of his post-dinner invitation.

Then, from the small restaurant garden, drawn by the mouthwatering smells, a scrawny kitten crept inside. Grey and hungry, it darted from table to table, finally curling up by Lord Ashfords ankles, pleading silently for kindness.

Mistake.

Disgust twisted his face. Without pause, he nudged the kitten away with his foot. The poor thing tumbled several feet and crashed by the pints-and-crisps mens table. A hush fell over the whole room.

I cant stand these filthy mongrels, Lord Ashford declared loudly. Back home, I have pedigreed setters and the finest horses.

Allow me, sir stammered the waiter, hurriedly apologising.

He made for the mens table, but one had already risen. Nearly six foot seven, crimson-faced and fists clenched. His friends tried to restrain him.

Saying nothing, he lifted the kitten and placed it on a chair. A plate for my furry mate! he commanded. And the best steak youve got. Pronto.

The waiter went pale and bolted towards the kitchen. Applause rippled around the room.

Then, Lucy strode over, silent but firm, to the gentle giant. Make room. And buy a lady a whisky.

Lord Ashford stared, speechless.

Moments later, Charlotte and Emily joined them, sparing Lord Ashford one final frosty glance.

No longer one group, but threeman, woman, and kittendeparted into the London night.

Time passed. Today, Lucy is married to that gentle titan, Tom Blackwood, founder of a leading investment firm. Her friends wed his matesJames Turner and Andrew Sutton, renowned solicitors. Their weddingsone glorious day of celebration.

Life for those former sprites is transformed: nappies, home-cooked meals, tidying the house. Each has a daughter, born almost in unison.

And for weekend escapes back to their favourite restaurant, the husbands are sent off to pub football or fishing trips as nannies are called, and the friends reuniteto talk about life, love, and men.

As for Lord Henry Ashford of Berwick, the headlines came a year later: a scandalous trial, exposed as a wily marriage swindler preying on hopeful hearts.

Fortunately, true gentlemen remain untouched.

I speak of those threeplump, balding, unpolished, but with hearts finer than any silk tie.

Thats the way it is.

Anything else would be unthinkable.