Monday, September 13, 2004

Wiesenhof, Killarney

Monday, September 13, 2004

Service: * * *
Food: N/A
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * *

Nope. This babe wasn't sitting at Wiesenhof showing me her Belgian Waffle. I drew this yesterday on my palmtop. Enjoying this software tremendously.On form again! I'm playing Alistair tonight in the last match of this cycle. If I win, I'll stand a chance at third place in the B-division. If I lose, humiliation is my middle name.

I've already had supper. Last night Karen made a spicy cottage pie, and left the leftovers at my place. Just before I left for backgammon, I heated some up in my microwave oven, and grated mature cheddar over the top. Hmmmmmmm.

Keenan, our waiter for the night, asks what I'd like.

"A Tab with three slices of lemon, please," I say, and I shake the dice. Alistair orders coffee. The way I'm playing, he ought to order a toilet roll too. Cos there's gonna be skid marks in his underpants tonight if he's not careful.

Early in our first game, I offer him the cube. He takes. A few throws later, he offers it back. An obvious take. So we're sitting on a cube of 4. I throw well. Give him the cube back to 8. A marginal take. Now our palms are sweating. He gets a lucky roll. Insanely offers me the cube on 16! In a match going to 21 points, this is crazy. If I drop, I lose 8 points immediately. If I take the cube, whoever wins gets 16 points minimum. I take.

A few throws later, I find myself in an unassailable position. I do the absolutely unthinkable. I turn the cube to 32. Alistair ponders. If he takes, this is the only game we'll need to play tonight. Because whoever wins, gets the required number of points to take the entire match. If he drops, he loses 16 points, and puts me in an almost invincible lead.

Alistair is not insane. He drops the cube, and I'm ready to kick his butt.

"Keenan," I say, and our waiter hurries over. "May I have a Belgian waffle?"

He bursts out laughing. "A WHAT? Be careful... I'll tell your wife what you asked for!"

"Why?" I ask, bemused. "What's a 'Belgian Waffle'?"

"No!" says Keenan. "I can't tell you!!!" He heads for the kitchen, giggling.

"What's a 'Belgian Waffle'?" I ask Alistair.

"Probably some slang or other for female genitalia," he says.

The waffle arrives. Delicious. With ice-cream and syrup. Ayeeee. Gimmmmmme.

We play on. And Alistair draws on vast reserves of luck, patience, and skill, and the score evens out to 18-17 to me. I've got to stop thinking about Belgian Waffles, and play.

A couple of deft flicks of the wrist, some daring offerings of the cube, and I beat Alistair 21-18. Hooray! I'm alive!

And tonight's our last night at our winter venue. Next week we're in Sandton again.

Damn. I'm gonna miss the Belgian Waffles here.

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