Chico Time

hy do I always pick the seat next to the most irritating person in the pub? Today’s perpetrator was a loudly spoken WAG-wannabe, fussing incessantly over a trophy Chihuahua perched in the high chair beside her like a fluffy babe; a middle-aged woman’s hormonal equivalent of a middle-aged man’s impulsive motorbike purchase. The dog’s name, I discover without trying particularly hard to eavesdrop, it ‘Chico’ – but you’d already guessed that from the first clue hadn’t you? At this point I theorise that Chico’s owner is probably named after the white wine she is trying to sip elegantly in between […]