I was out for lunch at a restaurant yesterday, and therein lies, dear reader, a tale of woe.
I often go out for lunch. They way I look at it, I have but a certain number of years to spend on this planet, and that means I have but a limited number of meals to eat. It, therefore, means that I must try and make the most of every meal, and so convinced am I of the merits of this argument that I often spend the better part of my day wondering what to eat and where.
And having decided the what and the where, I was ensconced in my seat, devouring a meal, with a book on the Kindle for company. A good meal in air-conditioned environs, and a book by the side. There isn’t much more required to keep Kulkarni happy these days.
But alas, rain was to fall on this little scene of epicurean bliss.
Having finished a page, I was about to turn it over while looking to use the fork and knife to cut myself another succulent morsel. But handling a fork, knife and an electronic book proved far too much a taxing task for the hand and eye coordination department, and of the three, my brain decided to abandon in mid-air my grip on the knife. It proceeded to fall to the ground by means of a detour on the lower reaches of my shirt, which now was a fetching shade of blue with a splash of rather un-fetching brownish gravy.
No matter, you might think, for I won’t be the first, nor the last, person to drop some cutlery while eating. And this is clearly what the waiter thought as well, as he rushed up to provide me with a replacement knife and a winningly encouraging smile.
But as any near and dear ones of the undersigned will tell you, I dropping cutlery during a meal is more of a marathon. Dropping a knife is how I warm up for these extended festivities.
I don’t know what it is about me, but every now and then, I get these spurts of clumsiness. And when I’m in the mood, it is best to not be within a five-meter radius. Spoons, knives, jugs of water, and on one memorable occasion, an entire tureen of soup have met with my flailing limbs and have subsequently lain on the floor, thoroughly vanquished in battle. And so it was this time, as two spoons and the little tray containing tissues joined the knife on the floor.
All I could do was look piteously at the other patrons and waitstaff in the restaurant and bleat out abject apologies each time. By the time the tissues experienced gravity, the atmosphere in the restaurant was one of open incredulousness, with one rather young whippersnapper plaintively asking his mother what was wrong with me.
It was all I could do to finish lunch as quickly as possible and beat as dignified a retreat as was possible under the circumstances, which I duly proceeded to do. Of course, as soon as I was out of the restaurant, the condition magically subsided, and I could have juggled three balls into the air while balancing an orange on my nose, where but five seconds earlier I couldn’t pick up a menu without having it collapse in a heap on the floor.
I often wonder if these attacks of un-coordination are due to some medical condition. But whenever I express these musings in front of the missus, she informs me in tones that some would describe as acerbic that if I would only stop reading while eating, things would be much easier for all concerned.
There may be a grain of truth in that surmise, I’m willing to accept. But even so, I don’t think I’ll be giving up the habit anytime soon. And so if you happen to be out for a meal yourself, and happen to spot a circus act gone completely wrong at a neighbouring table, do come and say hello.
He doesn't expect the paradox to be resolved in his lifetime
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