During 2003 I worked for an elderly care agency based in the Kent County of the U.K. There are many stories to be told, but this is one I would like to remember:
I worked and lived with a Miss Kelly in Kensington High Street, near Kensington Palace and the beautiful lush Holland Park. At one point I decided to buy chicken breasts at the Safe Way shop just around the corner, but from the butcher's counter and not the shelves. These chicken breasts just seemed to be more healthy and succulent and I have fancied buying those for a while.
Going over to the butcher, I politely asked the fair moon-faced podgy butcher with a big slaughter's knife in one hand, for two chicken breasts.
“Only two chicken breasts Madam?”
Yes please.
At the top of his voice, he went repeating the order with a loud drawl and boisterous humored voice which made other shoppers stop and stare at us.
"Two chicken BREASTS it will be for our lovely young lady over here!”
A potty butcher? Yes. A smart-pants? Indeed. I must have emphasized the wrong syllable. Typical British the bulldog had jumped at the first opportunity to exploit. Even this knowledge did not stop me from blushing crimson red, wanting to cover myself from head to toe and any rags would do just fine.
I crawled out of the shop with the accursed chicken BREASTS...
- And made a lovely meal of it.
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