Olga's

A fine Spring day, too nice to stay indoors doing the ironing or even worse watching daytime TV.

‘Let’s go out somewhere for lunch,’ I said.

‘We’ve been everywhere,’ he said.

After a few bits of grumbling, from both sides, and it being too late to go anywhere very far, it was decided that we should go to Kinver and then maybe onto the glass museum at Broadfield House.

I like Kinver, surrounded by green hills, a few shops to add a little interest, numerous estate agents to tempt those with itchy feet and money, and of course a selection of teashops.

‘Which one today?’ I ask

‘I like this one,’ he says looking into the welcoming interior.

It names itself as Olga Dunn above the window, intriguing because the name on the menu is The Maori. I suppose I should ask why the discrepancy. I suppose I could accept Olga’s but Maori? There is nothing inside that is remotely antipodean. Teak tables and chairs, of the seventies era I would guess, various ill assorted items for sale the most prominent being hand painted stones ‘made locally’, not sure if that refers to the stones or the painting, and of course a selection of ‘goodies’ to eat and drink.

There are a few spare tables; others mainly occupied by people of a ‘certain age’. We of course do not count ourselves amongst this group! A perusal of the menu results in a decision, ham and cheese toasties accompanied by coffee.

‘He’ goes up to the counter to order.

‘Yes dear?’ asks the lady

‘Two ham and cheese toasties please.’ She takes up a note pad and a pencil, which she licks thoughtfully, I hasten to add that the pencil and not the pad was licked!

‘What was that dear? Two cheese and pickle baguettes?’

‘Two ham and cheese toasties,’ he repeats.

‘Sorry dear! Two cheese and ham toasties,’ she says out loud as she writes the order.

Whilst we wait time to observe the other customers.

I love teashops mainly because it gives me an opportunity to watch others and to listen in on their conversations and with the added advantage of having something nice to eat.

‘You’re just nosy!’ I am informed.

‘A healthy interest in my fellow man,’ is my reply.

Our sandwiches arrive with plenty of ham and delicious gooey cheese and of course the obligatory iceberg lettuce. As I am tucking in, ‘nosiness’ forgotten for the moment a group of ‘old dears’ come in and settle themselves at a table in the window, the sun streaming through lighting up their silvery curls. I continue munching but am intrigued by these ladies. After a long discussion a decision is made and one of them goes up to order. In due course the smiling waitress, not the forgetful one, delivers their drinks to their table. As she sets out the cups and teapots she makes polite conversation. I see one of the ladies give her a strange look.

‘What did you say?’ asked one of the trio.

By now I was all ears, both lunch and husband ignored.

‘You’ve got a sunny seat,’ repeated the waitress.

‘Oh, I thought you said you’ve got funny feet,’ answered the old dear as she looked down towards the supposedly maligned items.

I collapsed and it took some time for me to recover in order to retell the story.

Coffee shops are wonderful places.