**A Night Out at the Restaurant**
“Off we go for an adventure!” said Emily and Abigail to each other as they tossed their suitcases into the boot of the car. 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 shot past like a speeding train, leaving behind nothing but a blur. The first month of summer melted away like ice cream in a bowl, vanishing into the whirlwind of daily chaos. Life moves just as swiftly—fleeting, transient, and frantic. Before they knew it, July crept in, turning the key and stepping into their lives without warning.
Anyone who works a five-day week knows the agony of those last few hours before holiday. Your mind is already free, but your body remains trapped at work. Customers seem unbearably fussy, bosses become nit-picky, and time drags like an endless school lesson.
“Did someone superglue the clock hands?” groaned Emily, staring at the clock. “I need this holiday now.” Her heart raced with anticipation, her soul yearning for carefree relaxation.
“I want sweetcorn, pickled mussels, and prawns,” Abigail declared after yet another customer left.
The girls also fancied treating themselves to a fine Scotch whisky—its rich aroma and complex aftertaste never failed to impress. Though, pride comes before a fall, as they say. Best not dwell on past blunders.
“Fancy a swim in the sea?” one asked the other during lunch. “What could possibly stop us?”
With current prices soaring, a trip abroad was out of the question. Cornwall’s beaches seemed the perfect compromise.
At last, their dream was coming true! Two thrill-seekers, adventurers, and hopeless romantics rolled into one—could this really happen?
“Everyone will be green with envy, so let’s keep this hush-hush,” they agreed before rushing home to pack.
How on earth do you fit half your wardrobe, three types of shoes, cosmetics, creams, and unnecessary essentials into one suitcase? For women, it’s an impossible puzzle—like trying to solve Fermat’s Last Theorem.
Yet here they were, by the sea. Gentle waves lapped the shore, while noisy seagulls wheeled overhead, hunting for fish. Pure bliss.
Sunbathers soaked up the serene atmosphere—adults lazily snacking on salted nuts and sipping chilled lager from condensation-covered cans, children devouring pasties and greasy sausage rolls.
“Stand up straight! Shoulders back! Now look at me—perfect!” Emily directed, snapping photos of Abigail by the water.
“Now hold this melon. Gorgeous shot!” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “Your turn.”
A seaside photoshoot is an epic ordeal. Of course, they had to look perfectly tanned, toned, and free from puffiness—because everyone knows late-night pints don’t exactly lend themselves to flawless skin. But hey, it’s holiday!
“Abby! What is this?” Emily screeched. “Why do I look like I’m snarling? Couldn’t you have told me? And why did you take fifty shots when one decent angle would do?”
Abigail sulked, but Emily wasn’t done.
“I got amazing photos of you, and this is what you give me? That one makes me look lumpy, and in this one, I don’t even look like myself! Oh, fine, never mind. Hand me the selfie stick.”
Abigail, fuming, nearly stormed off, but Emily reeled her back in.
“Who’s got a face like a slapped fish? Come here, gorgeous. One more with the melon, some lavender, and champagne glasses. Smile—got it!”
The photos turned out surprisingly well.
“Em, we should celebrate,” Abigail suggested. “How about dinner at a fancy restaurant tonight?”
“Brilliant idea! Seafood platter and sparkling wine—count me in!” Emily could already picture herself lounging in a chic eatery, glass in hand.
So off they went, dolled up in their best dresses, giddy with excitement.
The restaurant visit started well—until it didn’t. The dining room was quiet.
“Let’s take that table with the sea view,” Abigail suggested.
“Apologies, that one’s reserved,” the waiter said. “How about this spot by the pillar?”
“Great start,” Abigail muttered, scanning the menu. “I bet they lied just to charge extra for the view. Still, this isn’t bad, right?”
“What?! Two hundred grams of grilled scallop salad for the price of my second-hand Fiesta?” Emily gasped.
“Rocket and prawns—two-forty grams? For that money, we could buy a plane ticket!” Abigail huffed.
“Maybe the wine list has better deals,” Emily said, flipping through glossy pages. Silence fell.
“£45 for a hundred fifty ml? Outrageous. Abs, you know this amount won’t cut it. We’ll need more, and I refuse to max out my credit card. I planned to return debt-free.”
“Let’s sneak out,” Abigail whispered. “You first, then me.”
Once outside, they burst out laughing.
“We’re such idiots. At least we got good photos—no one will guess we bailed. Come on, there’s another place round the corner. I’m starving.”
They snapped a few more pictures by a red carpet setup before settling at a table.
“Em, you know I’m up for anything—except starvation and valium. But this menu? One meal costs a whole month’s wages, bonus included. I’m off to the loo. Grab our bags in five, meet me by the fountain.”
Attempt two: failed. Third time lucky?
“Look how packed this place is! Prices must be reasonable,” Emily said, dragging Abigail inside.
The host seated them at a cosy table near a massive aquarium. Golden fish darted past—or were they winking?
“What’s the deal with our luck?” Emily groaned, scanning eye-watering prices. “Might as well go out with a bang. Abby, watch and learn. Time for my theatrical debut.”
Summoning the waiter, she crossed her legs—showing off sun-kissed knees—tossed her hair, and let her fake diamond earrings shimmer.
“Darling,” she cooed, “we’ll start with an aperitif. A glass of Pétrus Pomerol 2001. Red pairs beautifully with seafood. Abby, your usual—Château Mouton Rothschild 2000?”
Abigail nodded.
“Now, beluga caviar, two bluefin tuna steaks with sesame oil, wasabi, and lemon. Tell the chef not to overcook them. Oh, and Kumamoto oysters. For dessert, carrot cake with truffle mousse. And do hurry—we tip generously.”
The waiter stared, gulped, then stammered, “One moment—I’ll fetch the manager.”
“What are you doing?!” Abigail hissed. “They’ll throw us out!”
“Relax. The way out is the way in. We’ve got this.”
Moments later, the manager arrived.
“Ladies, we don’t stock those items. May I recommend paella, mussels in cream sauce, or risotto?”
“Pity. Bring us Lokoya Cabernet Sauvignon Howell Mountain 2007. Surely you have that?”
“Another disappointment, I’m afraid. As an apology, allow us to offer complimentary Moët & Chandon Brut.”
“French champagne? Hard pass,” Emily sniffed. “Since you’ve nothing suitable, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
Noses in the air, they swept out.
“You could’ve had free champagne!” Abigail grumbled.
“Nothing’s ever truly free,” Emily countered.
“Home, then? Let’s grab instant noodles, a bottle of Prosecco, and a tin of tuna. Your acting was Oscar-worthy, though.”
“Who knows? Let’s hit the supermarket first.”
In silence, they bought plastic flutes, sliced ham and cheddar, a bar of Dairy Milk, and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
The cashier eyed their frowns. “Ladies, just… pace yourselves, yeah?”
Kicking off their sandals, they sprinted down to the beach. As they sat on the sand, cracking open the whisky, seagulls cried overhead, and waves glimmered under moonlight.
A nation with women like these is unbeatable.
