Sam snorted. "In what fantasy realm could a could a grade A bint like that be remotely interested in an orang-utan like you?"
"She does. She was giving me the eye."
"I gave you the eye but you swallowed it."
"Didn't realise you were interested mate." Dill winked.
"I wouldn't touch yours with a barge pole."
"You didn't say that at the Alt-Soc party."
"I was drunk. Very, very drunk." Sam picked up his latte again. "They didn't heat the milk up properly. This is stone cold."
"You asked for a frappuccino. It's supposed to be cold."
"Nah. I wanted a cappuccino. Something hot inside me."
"That's what you said at the Alt—"
"Just shut up about that." Sam wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I'll complain." He emptied the bowl in sugar packets and began to lay them out on the table in an eight by eight square; a seemingly random pattern of light and dark packets.
Dill leaned forward. "What are you doing?"
"Eight-bit animation. Give me your phone a minute."
"To take a picture."
"Can't you use yours?"
"Mine's only three meg. Yours is eight. Come on. We could go viral on YouTube."
"Go on then." Dill passed over his phone. "What is it anyway?2
"A Space Invader."
"Cool." Dill sorted through the remaining packets. "Here. There's some mint sauce. You could have green bases." He reached across to the next table for another bowl of assorted condiments. "All of your bases are belonging to us."
Sam laughed. "Cool."
"I hope you're going to clear up after yourselves. The waitress stood over them, a large plaster held between thumb and forefinger.
"Magic! You took your time. My cappuccino went cold." Sam waved his scabrous and festering foot in the air.
The waitress looked at Dill. "I'm not touching it. He's your friend. You do it."
Dill scowled. "What about the Health and Safety at work act? Isn't it your responsibility to tend to the needs of the customer?"
"I'll call you an ambulance, shall I?"
Dill snatched the plaster from her hand. "There's justice for you." He pretended to write, speaking aloud. "The waitress had no manners at all and asked if we wanted an ambulance order. I got the impression she was about to become violent."
"You're twisting my words. It's not my fault your friend stepped on a chip."
"But you do serve chips here?"
"Not the sort you pulled out of his foot we don't, no."
"You don't know? Some waitress you are."