Last week saw me waddle into one of the better known 5 star hotels in Colombo. I hadn't been to one of those for some time, and even better, my sense of taste was getting back to normal... so I was obviously looking forward to enjoying the fun, music and the food at the wedding.
We were late, but not late enough to dive into the buffet right away. After about 15 minutes of smiling serenely at the rest of the crowd and swaying gently to the strains of classical music, the hunger pangs hit. It is incredible how quick and intense the sensation of hypoglycaemia is these days... I get irritable, my head hurts, tummy rumbles and Baby does the cha-cha on my internal organs. There was no sign of wedding cake or the welcome drink. I waved frantically at a waiter who was loitering nearby, desperate for sustenance.
Angel (smiling sweetly) : we only just got to the hall, do you think we could have some drinks served to this table?
Waiter (somewhat loudly) : NO
Eh? What??? How dare he... what's wrong with him... can't he see I'm pregnant? I need special treatment...! Hang on.... I'm entitled to a welcome drink, dammit!!
I sit there, massively pregnant, wrapped in my cream silk saree, the voluminous folds making me look more like a beached whale than anything else, and stare up at him in shock.
Angel (stammering) : But why not?
Waiter (miffed) : we have been instructed not to serve drinks, Madam.
The penny drops.
Angel (in a voice so cold that hell would have frozen over) : I meant a welcome drink
you moron not an alcoholic drink!
Waiter : Ah... um... sure.... (and scuttles off)
The rest of my unsympathetic table-mates burst out into gales of hysterical laughter. The general consensus was that the waiter has (quite understandably) put down my dimensions to alcoholic cirrhosis!
Hmmmp! I don't get no respect!