**A Night Out at the Restaurant**
“Off we go for an adventure!” chirped the inseparable best friends, tossing their suitcases into the boot. The train departed right on schedule and arrived precisely at eight in the morning—not a minute late. But let’s start from the beginning.
Summer was in full swing. June had zipped past like a jet plane, leaving nothing but a blur behind. The first month of warmth had melted away like ice cream in a sundae glass, swallowed by life’s endless whirlwind. Time waits for no one—fleeting, transient, and frantic. And just like that, July tiptoed in, unlocking the door without warning and strolling into our lives.
Anyone who’s worked a nine-to-five knows the struggle of those final hours before a holiday. Your mind’s already on the beach while your body’s still chained to the desk. You grit your teeth and wait for the clock to grant your freedom.
“Has someone glued the hour hand in place?” muttered Emily, glaring at the wall clock. “Holiday can’t come soon enough.” Her heart raced with anticipation, her soul already basking in the promise of serene relaxation.
“I fancy some sweetcorn, pickled mussels, and prawns,” said Sophie after another customer left. The girls dreamed of treating themselves to a fine Scotch—its rich aroma and deep, lingering finish never failed to impress. Not that they were seasoned whiskey drinkers, but who dwells on past mistakes?
“Fancy a dip in the sea?” they mused over lunch. “What’s stopping us?” With finances tight, foreign holidays were off the table, and after a quick Google search, the choice was obvious: Brighton.
At last, their dream was coming true. “Everyone’ll be green with envy—let’s keep this quiet,” they agreed before racing off to pack.
Tell me, how does one fit an entire wardrobe, shoes, enough makeup to stock a Boots, and a dozen other utterly unnecessary essentials into one suitcase? For women, it’s an unsolvable riddle, right up there with Fermat’s Last Theorem.
But there they were—by the sea. Gentle waves lapped at the shore. Shrieking seagulls circled overhead, hunting their next meal. Bliss.
Beachgoers soaked up the illusion of tranquillity. Adults lazily crunched salted crisps and peanuts, washing them down with ice-cold lager straight from the can. Kids devoured greasy fish and chips with glee.
“Stand straighter! Chin up—right foot forward! Perfect!” Emily directed, snapping photos of Sophie by the water. “Now hold that melon. Gorgeous shot!” She wiped sweat from her brow. “Your turn.”
A seaside photoshoot is its own epic saga. They had to be bronzed, toned, and preferably free of under-eye puffiness. Everyone pretends midnight kebabs and pints don’t wreak havoc, but, well—holidays call for indulgence.
“Sophie! What is this? I look like I’m snarling! Couldn’t you have told me?” Emily groaned. “Hold the phone properly, for heaven’s sake—pick an angle and click!” She glared. “I got perfect shots of you, and this is what I get in return? One makes me look lumpy, the other like some sleep-deprived ghoul. Fine, never mind. Hand me the selfie stick—I’ll do it myself.”
Sophie, fuming, nearly stormed off to swim, but Emily wasn’t done. “Who’s sulking now? Come here, gorgeous. We’re doing one more—melon, lavender, and wine glasses. Smile! Got it.”
Miraculously, those turned out well.
“Em, we should celebrate this photoshoot. How about dinner at a restaurant?” Sophie suggested, eager to smooth things over.
“Brilliant! I’m all for it. Let’s get seafood,” Emily replied, already envisioning herself reclined with a flute of Prosecco in some swanky eatery.
And so, dolled up in their finest dresses, the giddy pair set off that evening.
The restaurant seemed harmless—but who knew it’d take three attempts to actually eat?
“Let’s take that table by the window,” Sophie suggested.
“Apologies, that’s reserved,” the waitress said. “How about this one by the pillar?”
Sophie sighed. “So much for ocean views.” She scanned the menu, griping, “They probably charge extra for the seats by the water. Oh well, this’ll do.”
“Two hundred grams of grilled scallop salad for the price of a used Fiesta?” Emily gasped. “Rocket and prawns—£40? For that, I could buy a plane ticket!”
“Maybe the wine list’s kinder,” Emily muttered, flipping through glossy pages. Silence fell.
“£80 for 150ml of wine? These prices are criminal! Sophie, you know 150ml won’t cut it for us. We’d need a credit card, and I’m not starting my holiday in debt.” Emily pushed the menu aside.
“Let’s sneak out,” Sophie whispered. “I’ll go first.”
Outside, they burst into laughter.
“Like a pair of schoolgirls!” Emily grinned. “At least we got the photos. No one’ll suspect we fled. There’s a nice pub round the corner—fancy it?”
Round two ended similarly.
“See how packed this place is? Must be affordable,” Emily declared, tugging Sophie inside.
The host seated them by a grand aquarium where goldfish—or so they imagined—winked conspiratorially.
“One more night of failing—what’s the plan?” Sophie muttered.
Emily’s eyes gleamed. “Watch and learn.” She signalled the waiter, crossed her legs to show off tanned knees, and tossed her head—earrings swaying.
“Darling,” she purred, “we’ll start with an aperitif. A glass of Pétrus Pomerol 2001, please. Red pairs splendidly with seafood. Sophie, the usual—Château Mouton Rothschild 2000?”
Sophie nodded solemnly.
“Now, beluga caviar, two bluefin tuna steaks, wasabi, lemon. Tell the chef not to overcook them. And a dozen Kumamoto oysters. For dessert, carrot cake with truffle mousse. Oh, and do hurry—we tip generously.”
The waiter gulped. “I’ll fetch the manager.”
“Emily, they’ll throw us out!” Sophie hissed.
“Relax. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Soon, the manager arrived, flustered. “Ladies, we don’t carry those items. Might I suggest paella or mussels in white wine sauce?”
“How disappointing,” Emily sighed. “A LocaThey burst into giggles as they walked away, knowing their little performance had made the otherwise disappointing evening one to remember.
