At Starbucks when we get a text saying that our new glasses are in, so we stop on our way home. Two new pairs each on the two for one deal, and they seem fine. None too soon, as we’d reached the point where J was alternating - unsatisfactorily from my point of view to say nothing of his - between distance and reading glasses. And I was wearing a pair with frames that Claude had soldered on one side and J wired together on the other, as it came apart after we had left home. Seems like astonishing luxury to have a pair and a spare, both intact.
And, still in the interests of self-improvement, get my hair cut on Kilburn High Road. Too busy at the place across from Kiln Theatre so stop further along the road.
Price for a dry cut?
£15 ($25.50 CAD).
But that’s the same as the price for a wash and cut.
No, that’s £2 more.
But that’s not what it says on the sign outside.
Oh, all right then. We like to keep the customer happy. We have a Christmas special.
(All this in perfectly amicable, conversational tones on both sides). I forbear saying that no one could possibly have had a large and detailed sign printed with dozens of different services on it - waxing, nails, etc - just for Christmas and have failed to mention Christmas on it. It’s more than some in Kilburn, but not at all an unreasonable price. There’s a salon on Queensway where shampoo and blow dry STARTS at £27 ($50 CAD). I regularly pay more at home than this girl is quoting. It’s just a modus operandi I dislike even more than I dislike disputing it. So, shampoo and cut for £15. And I do tip.
Thursday is lamb kleftiko night at Roses, and we’re in luck. The best kleftiko we’ve had anywhere. The young (Eastern European?) waitress is sweet, and having a difficult night. A man in a wheelchair wants to come in, and she gets a small ramp and helps him manoeuvre his wheelchair in and adjust the footrests. Taking his order isn’t easy as he’s hard to understand and inclined to shout. Probably his life is harder than hers, but still. He has part of his meal put in a styrofoam container to take with him, indicating that it should be placed in one of the shopping bags on the back of his chair by dint of throwing it over his shoulder in the right general direction. It’s not until his second attempt, accompanied by shouting, that I realise what he’s doing. The waitress is a bit quicker and catches the box twice before managing to deposit it in one of the shopping bags, somewhat damaged. I tell her she deserves a glass of wine - and give her a bit more than usual.