The waiters have treated me like shit. They patronised me when I came in, stuck me at a back table and then ignored me. To order I have to approach one of them with a menu.
The bill comes – £24 for Moussaka, salad and a beer. I don’t want to leave exactly £24, they might think I’ve simply forgotten to tip and I want them to understand how I rate their service.
I put £24.13p on the table and rush out. On the pavement, I panic that I’ve forgotten my camera. I’d rather leave it behind than go back.
A stunning but pretentious bar on the beach. They play South American jazz and there’s a beauty hierarchy among the staff – all the men have interesting facial hair and the women are fully aware of how unobtainable they are.
The fantastic view over the bay is reflected in the price of the drinks. Contemplating £9 for a pint of cider and glass of white wine, I remember I’m a student and entitled to a discount. I show my card to the barman with the deliberately zany haircut and he stops calling me sir and switches to grunts and shrugs.