Think of the children

The Blonde wanted to go out and celebrate. I had just put on some Argyll socks that her mother had sent me for Christmas and put my feet up. I looked up, trying not to rustle the newspaper angrily and asked her what we were celebrating.
"Did you forget my birthday?" she cried, her eyes opening wide and a recently-manicured hand flying to her mouth.
"No," I said. "It's in two months time, just before we go to... somewhere."
"Oh." I could tell she was put out that the ruse had failed because she ask where I was going to take her for her birthday.
"Well, it's our five-year anniversary."
"Not for another four months," I said, raising the newspaper again and relaxing. "It's the day after Bonfire Night."
"You seem to know these dates awfully well," she said, the tone of doubt in her voice warning me to slacken my grip on the paper. She whisked it out of hands, and peered at my lap, looking for the calendar, smart-phone or PDA she suspected I was using, and found nothing but my paint-splashed jogging pants. "You can't go out wearing them!"
"I wasn't going to go out at all," I said. "I was going to read my newspaper and wear these socks your mother sent me."
"But we're celebrating!"
"What are we celebrating?"
"My... my period!"
I considered telling her that I knew her schedule as well because I'd synchronised the mortgage payments with it, but I could see that she was determined that we were going to go out and celebrate something. So I smiled and said,
"Is that such good news, dear?" and left her worrying about me wanting children while I got changed.

*
We arrived at I Bambini Grigi slightly later than I like to visit restaurants at, and stopped at the front door. I frowned, and the eight-year-old child in the ill-fitting tuxedo with a thin, wasted face frowned back.
"We have a reservation," I said, though in fact I was acquiring more the more I looked at him. "For nine."
"There's only two of you!" he said and giggled as though this was the funniest joke ever. I smiled as politely as rictus will allow, but the Blonde tittered a little too, and nudged me to tell me I should be laughing. I allowed a mirthless "Ha. Ha." to escape my lips.
"This way, Sir and... Ma-dame," he said sounding forty years older than he looked all of sudden.
We were seated, and a waitress brought the menu. Behind her lipstick and ill-applied make-up she could only have been six, and she was in a wheelchair. I tried not to stare, and the Blonde asked her if she'd mind if she gave her some make-up tips. As the girls got it on, I checked the menu, and noticed immediately that all the dishes on there were either invalid food or involved very young animals: week-old lamb, veal blanc, duck foetus. I flagged down another waiter, this one being probably twelve and looking like a heroin addict and asked him to send me the manager.

*
"And what seems to be the problem?" said the manager unctuously. His name-badge said he was Oliver, and he at least seemed to be an adult, if only just.
"Your staff," I said. "Have you ever heard of child-labour laws? Oh, and the menu too. This food is disgusting, and that's before I try eating it!"
"We're not breaching child-labour laws," said Oliver smiling. "None of these children are actually employed. All of them have expressed a wish to the Make-a-plea foundation to work in a restaurant before they die. They're all terminally ill."
"Right," I said. "Right. All terminally ill. That doesn't include the chefs, does it?"
"But of course! Children wish to cook as well, they watch Nigella and Jamie and Gordon--"
"I hope these kids don't watch Gordon! I have enough swearing at home, without going out for some more."
"They cook. Which, to some extent, explains the menu, they cook what they're used to."
"Duck foetus?"
"We had a shipment, we can't afford to waste food."
"Look," I said, "this is ridiculous. You might have got round the child-labour laws, but there are food hygiene laws too!"
"We're completely kosher," said Oliver quickly.
"Leprosy," I said. "Where do you put the lepers? And the kids with infectious diseases?"
"The salads and the cloakroom," said Oliver. "Hang on, what's the difference between a leper and a caper?"

*
We left without eating, and without paying, since Oliver wasn't paying any of his staff. On the way home, as the Blonde was choosing between Burger King and KFC, I made a few notes. After all, if I write it up, it becomes a work expense.