So, The Daddy has been home all day, and I have been at work, but there is nothing in the house for dinner.
This not really big news, it happens a lot. I wonder what his to-do list is, sometimes, as today he went shopping, but only bought cake and new shoes. I baked cake last night. He needed another one? Couldn't find anything for dinner? We are going to eat the shoes?
He helpfully texted me from the train to work that KFC is on sale tonight. It's the 28th, which is said Ni Wa (chicken) in Japanese.
I am not a big KFC Japan fan.
In Oz, it's fine. They have spicy chicken, put chicken salt on the chips, you can have corn, potato and gravy, if you want it all to be drumsticks, the smiley-paper hatted staff are there for you.
In Sydney, but NOT in Tokyo.
There is just no potato and gravy to be found anywhere on the KFC premises here. No substitutions will be made. No popcorn chicken, no chicken bacon cheese burger, NO ZINGER!
Where I live out here in Bum Crack Kodaira, they don't even put salt on your chips. Heathens.
I told the boys to get ready. Duck has done his nails, and is currently wearing a T-shirt and a pair of his older brothers grandpa underpants. It's 3 degrees Centigrade outside.
His Duck nuts are free. I know this because he is dancing around the living room, waving his hands like Lady Gaga so his nails are dry when we go out.
The Boy is choosing which belt goes with his new jeans. I am starving hungry, and I am thinking "Just shoot me now, we are never going to get out of here...." but after about a half an hour, pants-less Duck has been convinced his nails are dry enough to attempt re-pantsing, and The Boy has finally decided on the silver studded belt and white and silver tennis shoes.
KFC Kodaira is a smoke filled, garishly decorated cave. I don't go very often, and I hate eating in. The cigarette smoke does my head in. They have a smoking area that is three walls of glass, in the middle of the room, with the air conditioner helpfully positioned so as to blow second hand smoke through the other parts of the restaurant.
Boy takes FOREVER to order. He has to look at the whole menu and discuss the merits of each item. He takes his fast food choices very seriously, and also painstakingly fills out every. single. customer comment card. In every place of business we visit, no exceptions.
Duck only eats things that are green, or have green wrappers, or green writing on them and wears green clothes. Spinach is apparently never included in this deal. I dunno why.
His pyjamas, strangely, are a lurid, hot pink with little green flowers all over them. Every morning his father either has to bodily pin him down to remove the pink PJ's, or gives up and sends him to kindy dressed like Flower Power Barbie, with his school clothes in a plastic bag for Keiko Sensei to sort out. She also looked after The Boy when he was at that kindy. He used to strip off his clothes and wear skirts and aprons from the dress-up box all day. I don't believe she gets paid nearly enough money.
Fifteen bucks later and we are upstairs, with greasy chicken, salt free chips, an orange juice and a violently toxic-green coloured cup of melon soda, for The Duck.
While attempting to eat my chicken, The Boy grills me about the service, the food, the cleanliness, the speed, the friendliness of the staff. He double checks my answers for the service card, and listens to me bitch about the cigarette smoke.
He agrees they need a fourth wall or a door on the smoking section.
I look around, and the place has been re decorated. It has one and half metre sized heads of strange white people, some with bewildered looks, some quite menacing, lining the walls.
The guy on the wall directly opposite me looks like he is angry, and has a gun. He has a mad look in his eye. The woman on the wall next to him looks stoned. Maybe she is a hostage? These huge menacing scenes are not helping me eat my chicken. None of the people on the walls are eating chicken. Or chips. They are just staring. And not eating.
The Be Bop Boys who hang out in the smoking area, (and are there every single time I have ever been there), have lit up, and I have stinging eyes. My mouth tastes like greasy chicken and cheap cigarette smoke, I tell the boys it's time to get a wriggle on.
FINALLY they finish the last of the chips, and get their coats on. I am dreaming of snuggling under the kotatsu, perhaps turning it up to high, as there is no washing up to do, and Boy has ACTUALLY done all his home work.
We get down stairs, and as I go to say goodbye to the counter staff, The Boy pulls the manager aside to tell him EXACTLY what Mummee said about the cigarette smoke. Oh geeze.....
