I went to a local restaurant last week, and managed to get a skelf (depending on your location, also known as a splinter, spelk, or sliver) in the bend of my thumb. It came from the chair I was sitting on, but as my working life has involved moving lots of timber I was unphased. I have had and removed dozens of skelfs. This being the case, I sent the establishment a very tongue-in-cheek email about it – as always, for my own amusement. I half thought they might offer me a voucher of some kind, but instead they have neglected to reply.
Here is the letter I wrote:
I was in for a family meal on Tuesday night (9th September), and we were seated at tables opposite a banquette. At one point, in order to facilitate the duties of our waitress, I reached down to grasp my chair in order to move it forward – allowing her access between the chair backs and the wall.
Unfortunately, during this process of intended helpfulness, I felt a sharp pain in my right thumb. Without doubt, I got a deep skelf from your furniture. It went straight into the interphalangeal joint, a term I had to look up because hand anatomy is not my speciality, and I did not mention it at the time as I thought I had managed to successfully remove it.
On Wednesday, with the swelling that accompanied the wound turning septic, I was able to extract the remainder of the skelf – a splinter of several millimetres length.
As this small piece of wood is technically your property, I write to ask if you would like me to return it. I kind of hope not, since it seemed a poor souvenir of a nice evening and I binned it, before realising that it did not really belong to me. I can, however, send you a photo of the skelf (both embedded and removed) if this will enable you to have a replica made and reattached to the seat.
Let me know if this is of interest to you, and please accept my apologies for not being able to return the original.
Tomorrow is Thursday, and I am hopeful that the swelling (due to its location) will go down, allowing me to fully bend my thumb without discomfort once more. I trust the chair has exhibited no serious ill-effects.
Update: The restaurant never did respond, other than to add my email address to their mailing list. When I posted this on their Facebook, it was quickly deleted. I have not been back.
I’m not much given to dining out, my budget is limited and I’m still of an age where a social evening with friends is more likely to involve a pub, comedy night, cinema trip, or DVD night. My social group are not naturally given to going out for dinner, darling.
Birthdays and celebratory occasions are the exception, and then almost always exclusively limited to family. As time goes on, there are even less of us involved. Tonight, we went out to a local restaurant called Persia.
I remember when the place was an Indian takeaway, round the corner from a flat I later lived in, and outside which I saw my first (and so far only, touch wood) knife fight. I’d left the Oran Mor, heading for crap food on the way to the bus, when there was a ruckus. High stools were wielded, freshly-bought kebabs were thrown in defence, and after it died down someone reappeared from a side street brandishing a kitchen knife. He was standing on the boot of a parked car, holding it aloft like some deranged Glaswegian Lion-O, when I last looked – I decided I wasn’t that hungry, returned to the pub, and proceeded to drink for the next seven hours before catching the 6am bus instead. I love this city, but people get a bit mental when they’re buying food after a night’s drinking. Something about fried food brings out the worst in us, in every capacity.
Being unfamiliar with Persian cuisine, I looked the menu up online during the day. There were two reviews prominently featured on their page, and both recommended the same chicken stew dish. Faced with the menu, and deciding to try it for myself despite my hankering for the more predictable chicken shish kebab, it was disappointing. Not that it wasn’t nice, it was alright. Nothing more though, just alright. Maybe I’m a heathen, but I can’t get excited about chicken in a sauce served with rice – it was a staple of the family dinners we ate (or suffered) growing up, and the meal I had tonight didn’t taste any better or worse than Marks and Spencers are capable of. No disrespect intended, like everything else food is very subjective.
Nice place, good service, the starters were nice, and the mains looked pretty good. I think I just chose badly, and it’s the first and last time I order something based on a review. Chicken in a sauce with rice. Really, if that’s what excites you maybe you should get out more.