Small London Pleasures: Invisible Waitresses

  Dream on. Things aren't what they used to be. It seems that London waitresses have caught  American waitress disease . In other words never leaving you alone. "How is everything?" from one, then,  five minutes later, "How's your meal?" even, heaven forbid, a "How are you guys doing?" from a third.  And so on and so forth. I almost miss the days when you had to dance on the table to get their attention.
  In fact I've come to the conclusion over the past week that the Atlantic really is shrinking and faster than ever. Two days ago I was driving up the A3 when I suddenly saw something disturbingly familiar. For a moment I struggled to recognise it. It seemed to be in the wrong place, like spotting a palm tree at the North pole. I looked again. It couldn't be.. but no, it was. A snowplough. A brand new, giant, shiny snowplough, flashing lights and chugging along at five miles an hour. Before I knew what I was doing, I was overtaking it. And before I knew what was happening, my car was drenched in salt. (I should add there was no snow anywhere in sight). Back at base, I struggled with the hose, which was frozen solid.
  Hubby called later, wondering why he was seeing pictures on the internet of British cars stuck in two inches of snow. And added that, in Western NY, it was still warm and sunny.