Eddie Kid, he's a handsome fella, said Daryl, the only fishmonger I've ever truly loved... known, even.
He eats in my cafe on a Friday, comes in with his girl and carer. They live in Seaford.
One reads off the menu while Eddie sits in his wheelchair.
People stop to ask, Are you Eddie Kidd, all the time. People recognise him. He's a bit fucked. But he's still a great looking bloke. I'm not gay, but he sure is still a looker. His eyes dazzle.
We're moving along to the bigger unit at the end of the Enterprise Centre, Daryl, whose eyes really do dazzle, updated me.
It's got space for sofas where we can give people olives and tables big enough for paella dishes.
What's the point of paella without the dishes landing on your table?
We'll have a platter counter too, where folks can pick and mix oysters and prawns and all that stuff.
It'll be grand, but we're quite scared. We've gone from that little counter, and two dishes a day, to that.
It's daring. Eddie would approve, I should have said.
2 comments:
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