I really need to move on from all this deep-fried stuff. I still have to do Wedding Part III from seven months ago, and there’s a post from Lithuania 2004 to finish. But it’s this bloody Mobile Chip Van!
It keeps coming back every Saturday night and further endearing itself to me. Like instead of playing Greensleeves like Mr Whippy, this dude just drives up and down the streets honking the horn over and over until the customers come forth.
At the first toot last night, Gareth and I ran to the window to observe.
“Ohhh yes,” he sighed as they opened up the serving hatch. “Go and get us a single fish?”
“You’re not really wanting a single fish?”
“No. Not really.”
“Why do you call it a single fish, anyway? Why don’t you just say, Can I have a piece of fish?”
“Because it’s a Single Fish. That’s just how it is.”
There is still much to learn about the way of the world here. You don’t ask for “fish and chips” either. Fish and chips is called a Fish Supper. Deep-fried black pudding and chips is a Black Pudding Supper. If you asked for a Sausage Supper And A Tin Of Juice Thanks Pal, you’d get a deep-fried battered sausage of questionable origin, chips and a can of Irn-Bru.
“So is it only fish that comes in a single format?”
“Oh no. You can get a single sausage or a single pudding. Don’t think you get a single pie though. You’d just ask for a pie.”
“And if I wanted two bits of fish, I’d say Double Fish?”
Gareth snorted. “Don’t be preposterous! There’s no such thing as a Double Fish!”
“Because there isn’t! You’d ask for two Single Fish!”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“It makes sense if you’re Scottish.”