Independence Day

All continental waiters have a duty, bound with with an oath of the very serious kind, not unlike those of the Knights Templars or the Waffen SS, to chat up any female who enters their restaurant. It is a solemn duty, involving flattery, inquiry and the oblique suggestion of casual sex.

Women expect it and their men feel rather upset if they don't. Women expect, and should expect to be admired and lusted after. It is their duty and their privilege. Since I live in Scotland, there is always a problem with this. If some drunken Glaswegian were to come up to me and slur "Are you looking at my wife?" There is no good answer. If you answer in the affirmative, you get a Glasgow kiss. If you answer in the negative, you get, "Why not? Don't you think she is attractive?"

I recall a few years back that I took my daughter to a very good French Restaurant. I know this restaurant well and the head waiter and I are on good terms. Of course, he was charming to my daughter and a proper gentleman. She was probably 17 years old at this point and very sensitive to her looks and attractiveness. My head waiter friend, as I said, was charming to her, but very, very proper. Too proper. In the end I made up a little bit of business about the waiter and how he had told me how beautiful my daughter was and how he asked questions about her. It seemed to do the trick at a time when young Miss Weasel needed a bit of self-esteem.

So, we jump to today. Today, Mrs Weasel is in Vienna on a mission vital to the security of this country. She dined alone tonight at an Italian restaurant in the Capital. As you would expect, the Italian waiter chatted her up. All Italian waiters chat females guest up. It is not only their duty; they do it because they are Italian and because Silvio Berlusconi says its alright.

So the conversation goes on and the Italian waiter says that Mrs Weasel reminds him of a famous English (sic) singer. Could it be Florence Welch? Could it be Adele? (No, she's slimmer than Adele) Could it be Dido?

(Clearly, he is doing well and it looks as if Mrs Weasel will melt into the Limoncello.)

Then he says, "Yes, you are like that famous English (sic) singer, Susan Boyle." Of course, he has totally ruined it. Not only that, I must now fly to Austria and smash his face in. For the record, Mrs Weasel looks nothing like Susan Boyle and I know for a fact that she bleached her moustache before she left.

As for my daughter, today is a special day. This is the day that she can legally marry the person she loves, who happens to be a woman. The wedding, for that is what we can now call it, is next year.