Had you been sitting behind us in the theatre last night, you might have overheard this conversation…
“What are these?”
“Huh?” (I glance down at the armrests, which he’s tugging on.) “Oh. Armrests?”
“They don’t move?”
“No, not in this theatre.”
“Bah. Fences.”
The rest of the movie, you would occasionally hear, muttered, “bah, fences.”
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I had a Karen-moment today… We were eating out, (for those who are keeping track of such things, at The Outback), and talking about the “fucking Danes.” Had you overheard this conversation, it would have gone something like this:
“You know the Danes use butter to make ice cream?” (I apparently look properly horrified.) “Well, you know, ice cream requires fat. But we Swedes are normal, we use cream. The Danes are just weird. They dye their sausages! They eat these blood red sausages!” He gets quite for a moment, then serious and contemplative. “It’s probably why their flag is red.”
The conversation continued for a bit, during which time he began sneaking furtive looks at the single, solitary leftover crouton in my salad plate. Finally, “Are you going to eat that?”
“Uhm, no…? Do you want it?”
He glances around, behind his shoulder and at the other tables before pulling the plate over and quickly sweeping the crouton onto his salad plate. “No? We Smalanders don’t waste food!”
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I think Karen was right – Swedish imports certainly seem to be the way to go.