Part Five: FEEDING THE INNER MAN

Buster was in a sour mood for a long time after his disappointment in the Gallery and he strode along, shoulders hunched, muttering to himself, which only served to make people point and stare which, in turn, only served to make his mood even more sour.

After a while, he sat down on a bench in Princes Street and forced himself to calm down. He raised his eyes from the pavement for the first time in nearly an hour, looked around at the passing scene but, just as he was returning to his usual optimistic view of the world, the "one o'clock gun" was fired from the Castle Esplanade.

Buster jumped out of his seat, his heart thumped in his chest and he wondered if the City was under attack from some invading army. It was all very disconcerting.

When the old lady sharing the bench saw his reaction, she took the trouble to explain about the gun and so help him recover his composure. Reassured, Buster's face lit up like the Blackpool Illuminations. If it was one o'clock, it was also lunchtime.

He sprang to his feet, bowed low and thanked the lady for bringing him such good news. Now all he needed to do was find an establishment worthy of his appetite.

Finlay's was a bustling, cheerful place with a large ground floor and a flight of stairs that led up to a balcony from where happy diners beamed down at the rest of the world.

A thought occurred to Buster. Perhaps the portions were bigger up there but, then again, you might have to pay more for the view but, then again, bigger portions were bigger portions.

You just never knew how these things were decided and it was better not to risk losing out. Whatever the case, he thought that it would be a delightful novelty to have such a spectacular view as he tucked in to his chicken and chips. Accordingly, he directed his feet to the foot of the stairs.

He had only taken a few steps when the fountain on the other side of the room caught his eye. He was transfixed. He had never seen a fountain in a restaurant before and he was curious.

He approached the glinting, sparkling water with reverence and saw two coins lying on the tiles beneath the water and, with pleasure, realised that it was a "Wishing Fountain".

Suddenly he was friends with the City again. Earlier insults and slights were forgotten as he put his hands into his pocket and fished out three coins. He decided on three wishes and tossed the first coin in and made a wish for the lady on the train who had given him a sandwich because he hadn't had time to get one before boarding. Then he made a wish for old Joseph who had been so kind to him.

He had intended to give all three of his wishes away but gluttony got the better of him and so his last wish was that his eagerly awaited lunch would be every bit as appetising and generously proportioned as it looked on the picture in the window.

Unbeknown to him, however, while his attention was taken up by fountain and wishes, a nervous lady customer, certain that Buster was a representative of one of the more dangerous forms of lunacy, had alerted the management.

The first he knew of this development was an urgent prodding of his shoulder. Buster, who had not long completed his last wish, was most impressed. Seldom had ANY of his wishes been granted quite so expeditiously.

He asked the deputy manageress, owner of the aforesaid finger, if the chicken dish was exactly as depicted in the advert - not, of course, that he was accusing Finlay's of any skulduggery - and just to be sure he gave the bewildered woman a detailed description of how he thought such a dish should be set before a discerning diner such as himself.

Th woman stood open mouthed. She wagged a finger - yes, that one - at Buster and was about to speak but then thought better of it and made a B line for the kitchen. A moment later she returned flanked by a pair of burly chaps in spotless kitchen whites.

Buster, obliging as ever, was more than willing to repeat his instructions if it helped the restaurant folk to do their job properly but, as things turned out, there was no time for conversation. His feet barely touched Finlay's plush carpet and he was soon out on the street again sans chicken.........sans chips.



Later he found solace by way of the "Special Fish Tea" at Esposito's whose portions were as large as their premises were small.

It wasn't the same though. He would rather have had that juicy chicken and those fat chips in Finlay's picture and he knew that he would feel that way until the big colour picture had faded from his mind.