We have spent longer waiting than actually eating. Perhaps that’s why they’re called Waiting Staff. If our Waiter has control of our Waiting then I guess that makes us the Waitees.
My wife stares at the remains of her Tiramisu as I fail once more to attract the attention of one of the black-clad Serving Ninja that lurk in the shadows and scuttle from kitchen to remote corners of the restaurant on business far more important than delivering the bill I asked for fifteen minutes ago.
We should just leave.
But we can’t, obviously.
Being English is a terrible curse.