We were on our way back from one one of Cornwall’s most famous golf courses, when Ickle suggested we should stop off somewhere for dinner.

“Padstow is just down the road,” he said, “Rick Stein has got a quite famous fish and chip shop there?”

Ickle’s record that week for suggesting activities was far from impressive, but I quite like fish and chips, though I do not like celebrity chefs.  It was a dilemma, to be sure.  My argument that any celebrity chef opening a fish and chip shop is clearly going to be doing so not for Michelin stars, but just to make a shit load of cash fell upon deaf hears, and so off towards Padstow we headed.

We were surprised to find that there was a small sit-in area at his chip shop, I suppose to give us the faintest illusion of being in a restaurant.  We stood in the queue and waited for a table.

And waited.

At about ten to nine we had finally reached the front of the queue.  A waitress came over to us and I began handing over my order.  She immediately interrupted me.

“I’m sorry.  We close at 9pm, so I don’t think we’ll be able to seat you now.”

“What?  We’ve just queued for quarter of an hour!”

“Sorry about that.  You can still get a take away?”

Faced with with having nothing to eat, or having fish and chips in the car, we joined the take away queue,  which moved only marginally quicker than the sit-down queue.

“I’ll have cod and chips with mushy peas please.”

“We’re out of mushy peas.”

Out-fucking-rageous.

What sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas?  A really fucking shit one, that’s what sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas.  One that is more interested in ensuring massive profit margins and minimising potential waste than serving it’s customers.

I picked up a can of Coke and headed to the till with my tiny box of cod and chips.

“That’ll be £9.20 please.”

“£9.20? Are you sure? I mean, I know I’ve been queueing for quite a while, but inflation in Cornwall is hardly at Zimbabwe’s levels is it?”

“Urm, right.  That’s £9.20 please.”

I sat fuming in the car whilst eating my ridiculously expensive tiny dinner and vowed not to listen to any of Ickle’s ideas ever again.  Unless he suggested going to the pub.