The Waiter Rushed Over to Take Away the Kitten, but a Six-Foot-Tall Gentleman Scooped Up the Crying Fluffy Baby and Placed Him on the Next Chair: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Meat!” “Let’s wear something bold—almost like the young nymphs—and head to a swanky restaurant. Time to show ourselves off and size up the men…” So declared one of the three friends—a headteacher of a prestigious, exclusive private school, always armed with the cleverest words her profession demanded. These “nymphs” were all thirty-five—the perfect age, in their view, for short skirts and blouses that revealed rather than concealed. Deep necklines, flawless makeup, every piece of battle armor in place. The restaurant matched their expectations: posh, elite, and outrageously expensive, but well within their means. With a reserved table, they settled in, basking in admiring looks from men—and resentful glances from their companions. Of course, conversation turned to the main topic: men. Dreams, desires, and requirements. Each dreamed of her ideal—tall, fit, charming, and decidedly wealthy. The kind who’d carry you, indulge whims, spare you dull chores and chatter. And if noble-born, even better. “Just not like… those.” The friends glanced at a trio of cheerful, slightly pudgy men with thinning hair, surrounded by pints, chips, mountains of steak, and enthusiastic talk of football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, genuine, and utterly unrefined. “Dreadful.” “How gauche.” “Ugh.” The verdict was unanimous: uncouth, rough, clearly lacking sophistication and utterly unfit for such dazzling ladies. But then, something happened that changed the night’s tone in an instant. He arrived—stepping out of the latest model red Ferrari. “Lord Charles Saxon Coburg!” the waiter announced with grandeur. The friends perked up like pointer dogs catching a scent. Tall, athletic, with distinguished silver hair and a suit worth more than most homes. Diamond cufflinks and a blindingly white shirt completed the look. “Ahh…” “Oh wow…” “Mmm…” Necks craned, eyes grew bolder. “This is a real man,” one whispered, “A lord, a stunner, and a millionaire,” said the second. “I’ve always dreamed of the Bahamas—since childhood, actually.” The third stayed silent, but her gaze spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were invited to the Lord’s table. They strode over grandly, casting condescending glances at other guests—especially at the football-and-steak trio. The Lord was charming, a master conversationalist, spinning tales of lineage, stately homes, and priceless art. Tension simmered between the friends—each knew only one would be invited to continue the night. Dinner was an icebreaker: lobsters, platters of seafood, and rare vintage wine. The ladies gazed dreamily at the Lord, imagining a future far beyond the dining room. Rosy-cheeked and glowing, they were at their best. The Lord shone too—cracking high-society jokes and sharing stories of the elite. At this point, it hardly mattered where he’d invite them next. Outside, the restaurant had a small garden. The irresistible aroma wafted out, and soon a tiny, skinny grey kitten tiptoed in—hungry, hopeful, and sitting right at the Lord’s feet. But the Lord’s face twisted in disgust. He callously pushed the kitten away with his shoe. The little one skidded several feet, bumping into the table leg beside the football pals. Silence blanketed the restaurant. “I despise filthy, mongrel creatures,” the Lord declared loudly. “At my estate, we have purebred hounds and the finest horses.” The waiter rushed to appease him: “We’ll sort it out right away, our apologies…” He headed for the football table but one of the men—a giant, nearly two meters tall, red-faced and fists clenched—was already up. His friends tried to restrain him. He silently lifted the kitten onto a chair. “A plate for my furry friend!” he thundered. “Your very best meat. Now.” The waiter paled and sprinted to the kitchen as applause rippled through the room. One of the “nymphs” stood and joined the titan, declaring: “Move over, and get a lady a whisky.” The Lord was speechless. Moments later, the other two friends joined them, bestowing the Lord with icy glares. Not all left together that night. In one group: a man, a woman, and a grey kitten. Time passed. Today the first friend is married to the giant—now the owner of a major investment firm. Her two friends wed his mates, both renowned solicitors. The three weddings were held the same day. Their lives are different now—nappies, cooking, housework. All have daughters born close together. But to enjoy the old favourite restaurant, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, call for a babysitter, and meet again—to talk about womanly matters, and men. As for Lord Charles Saxon Coburg—he was arrested a year later, exposed in a high-profile trial as a romance scammer who duped countless women. Real men, thankfully, are a different breed. I’m speaking of those three—chubby, balding, unpolished, and lacking airs, but truly noble-hearted. That’s just how it is. There’s no other way.

The waiter hurried over and offered to take the kitten away. But a man, close to six and a half feet tall, scooped up the crying fluffy creature and settled it on the neighbouring chair. A plate for my feline friend! he called. And bring your finest steak!

Lets dress up, wild and bold, almost like young nymphs, and go to the swankiest restaurant in town. To turn some heads and judge the men
That was the confident declaration of one of the three friends headmistress of a prestigious and rather expensive independent school. Her position demanded authority, so she always had just the right words.

These nymphs were thirty-five in their opinion, the best age for short skirts and blouses made more to accentuate their assets than to hide them. Plunging necklines, impeccable make-up, the whole arsenal.

The restaurant they chose matched their standards: posh, exclusive and eye-wateringly pricey. Not that paying was an issue for any of them. Reservation made, they settled comfortably and basked in the admiring glances from men and the distinctly frosty ones from the mens partners.

As ever, the conversation turned around that most important subject men. Dreams, desires, non-negotiables. Each awaited her ideal: tall, athletic, attractive, and absolutely loaded. The sort to carry you around, gratify every whim, stay quiet, and never trouble you with chores. A title would be perfect.

Just not like those
The women exchanged glances and nodded toward a group of three cheerful, somewhat rotund men with receding hairlines. Their table was topped with pints, crisps and piles of steaks, the talk all football and fishing. Their laughter was raucous, genuine, free of airs.

Horrid.
So crude.
Appalling.
The verdict was unanimous: scruffy, coarse, no hint of refinement, and not remotely suitable for ladies of such calibre. But then, suddenly, everything changed.

He entered a man arriving in a cherry-red Ferrari, the very latest model.
Lord Cavendish of Windsor! the maître d announced with ceremony.
The ladies instantly composed themselves, like bloodhounds following a scent.

Tall, lean, distinguished silver hair, dressed in a suit clearly costing a fortune. Diamond cufflinks, crisp white shirt perfection.

Oooh
My goodness
Delicious
Necklines dipped lower, eyes turned unmistakably inviting.

Thats a real man, whispered one.
A lord and a millionaire, chimed another. Ive always dreamed of the Bahamas ever since I was a girl.
The third simply gazed; her look said more than words.

Within ten minutes, they were invited to the lords table. They walked across with regal air, their glances laced with disdain for the other diners especially the trio with their beer.

The lord was charming, a skilled conversationalist, spinning tales of ancient ancestry, family estates, and art collections. Tension mounted among the ladies; they all understood only one of them would be invited to continue the evening.

For a moment, the food distracted them: lobster, seafood platters, and vintage wine. The ladies fed themselves, fluttering lashes at the lord, and let their imaginations wander far from the restaurant. Their cheeks were flushed, and they looked radiant.

The lord shone too sharing witty stories from high society, and soon enough, the outcome of the dinner invitation ceased to matter.

Attached to the restaurant was a small garden. The delicious aroma drifted out and soon, from the hedges, appeared a small grey kitten. Scrawny, hungry it darted between tables until it sat, hopeful, right at the lords feet.

To no avail.

His face twisted with disgust as, without hesitation, he pushed the kitten away with his foot. The tiny creature flew several feet, colliding against the leg of the table occupied by the round men. The room fell deathly silent.

I hate these filthy, mongrel creatures, the lord declared. At my estate, its pedigree hounds and first-class thoroughbreds.
The waiter hurried to smooth things over.
Well handle it immediately, terribly sorry

He headed for the beer table, but one of the men was already on his feet. Enormous, nearly two-metres tall, face dark with anger, fists clenched. His mates tried to hold him back.

Silently, he picked up the kitten and set it on a chair.
A plate for my furry friend! he boomed. The finest meat you have. Now.
The waiter turned pale and bolted to the kitchen. Applause rang out.

Silent, one of the nymphs stood, walked to the giant and said,
Move up and get a lady a glass of whisky.

The lord was left speechless.

In a moment, the other two joined them, throwing the lord a look of pure contempt.

They didnt all leave together. Now, it was three a man, a woman, and a grey kitten.

Time went by. Now, the first of the friends is married to that very giant owner of a major investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both renowned solicitors. All married on the same day.

Now the former nymphs have a different life: nappies, cooking, cleaning. All have daughters born within weeks of each another.

And to escape to their favourite restaurant now and then, they send their husbands off to football or fishing, book a babysitter and reunite to chat about well, womens matters. Men, mainly.

And Lord Cavendish of Windsor? A year later, he was arrested. Scandalous headlines a marriage fraudster conning gullible women.

Thankfully, that never touched real men.

I mean those three with bellies, thinning hair, no gloss, no fanfare, but truly noble hearts.

Thats how it is.

Theres no other way.