What happens to a head waiter in the rain?

It’s day 4 or thereabouts and time for a hotel lunch in the south of Montenegro. We were getting to know our walking comrades much better: Very British Tony and the lovely Primrose. Anyone who wears a cravat and gilet on a walking holiday is unlikely to be a “Corbynista”. We’d outlined ‘rules of engagement’ between ourselves, they likely being of the right and we being of the left any talk of religion or politics were put on holiday. We got on famously. We’d arrived at Perast on the coast at the hotel where we were to have lunch outdoors on the “terriss” as Tony put it.

It did not look promising with leaden skies, and then the heavens opened and the ‘terriss’ ¬†was where the ordinary waiters got a soaking and the head waiter signalled from the door being aggravated by holiday makers filming the ¬†debacle on their mobile phones, just like me!

I’d like to speculate what he was thinking but it’s probably unprintable, but unlike the foot soldiers, he remained relatively dry. Speaking of soldiers, this would have pleased Very British Tony, as it was a subject very close to his heart, Primrose was less impressed with such talk. Possibly like my other half and my ramblings, she’d more than likely heard it all before.

Speaking of rambling, which is why we there, that was to happen on the next day. And it will be here tomorrow.