Table for one

I have to tell you it can be incredibly liberating dining out on your own. You don’t have to bother waiting for anyone else to turn up late or argue about which table is the most private or has the best view or who will pick up the bill at the end of the meal. All you have to worry about is yourself. Sometimes I’ll not even bother looking at the menu and simply throw caution to the wind by asking the waiter to bring me whatever is that day’s special. This is what I now call, Living Dangerously. Trust me, living dangerously used to have a whole different meaning for me in the past but rarely did it ever involve a herb omlette with house salad or a hot beef sandwich on rye. I use the term, dining out on your own, loosely because although I turn up and sit down at a table alone I can assure you I’m never lonely.

Take Monday this week for example at The Breakfast Club on Southwark Street. All I wanted was a quiet avocado and mojo picon on toasted sourdough. For an extra two pounds fifty they’ll even throw on some crispy bacon.

“In my humble opinion that dish would taste far better with some melted halloumi,” said Alice who was sitting opposite me at the time staring at my plate. It’s my experience that anyone who says, in my humble opinion, is never humble. I knew she was called Alice because she had a badge on her lapel which read – Hi I’m Alice – and underneath her name were the words – Here to Help. Only she wasn’t helping because I’ve never liked halloumi. Alice didn’t work at The Breakfast Club she’s employed as a room attendant at the Hilton up the road which I have to say says a lot about their breakfasts. Apparently her first husband ate a considerable amount of feta but it was not entirely clear from our long conversation about him whether their marriage ended because of his love of cheese.

On Tuesday I stopped off at Starbucks for a latte and a Danish and bonded at a window table with Arthur who told me in great detail all about his recent colonoscopy. On Wednesday at Pret a Manger I met two Japanese tourists who took turns pointing and laughing at me every time I stirred my porridge. The faster I whisked my spoon the more hysterical they became. This morning at Giovanni’s I thought I’d play it safe and sit outside on the pavement. For the entire duration of my visit the leash of a Dalmatian dog was looped around the back of my chair. There was no obvious explanation why this happened to my chair other than I suppose the owner thought I looked like I could do with the company. The Dalmation didn’t say much thankfully but I don’t think he approved of my scrambled egg.

Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to stay home tomorrow. I could do with some peace and quiet.