A Mexican Meal
Dec. 24th, 2009 08:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
smallhobbitBefore England’s quarter final match against Germany in the 1970 World Cup Gordon Banks was taken ill and Peter Shilton had to take his place. England lost 2 – 3 in extra time.
“You trying to give me food poisoning then, like Gordon Banks, with this food, Tyler?”
“Sorry Guv, I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I thought you’d like Mexican for a change.”
Mrs Hunt had gone to her sister’s (Christmas shopping Gene thought), so Sam, as was his custom on such occasions, had invited Gene back to his flat.
“Don’t they watch football on the telly in Hyde? You telling me that you don’t know why we lost that quarter final when we were up to retain the cup?” Gene sighed deeply and glared at Sam. “Where’ve you been for the last few years?”
Sam felt it was easier not to answer that question and so asked instead who the match had been against.
“You’re worse than the missus is, Gladys,” Gene began. Any further explanations were cut short as the flat was plunged into darkness. “B****y power cuts”
“It’s okay, I’ve got some candles in here,” the muffled voice of his DI came from the depths of a cupboard. He passed them out and Gene lit them with his lighter.
“Very festive,” he grumbled. “Speaking of which, what you doing over Christmas?”
“Dunno yet. I’ve put myself down for several shifts so the others can see family. Thought I’d maybe have a go at one of Delia’s recipes.”
“Not going to see your poncy mates in Hyde then?”
Sam’s head shake told Gene that his younger colleague would be spending any time he wasn’t in the office alone in his rundown flat.
“You’d better come to us then. It’s just me and the missus this year and she always cooks enough for a small army.” Sam made as if to object. “And she’ll be glad to have someone to talk to who doesn’t snore their way through the Queen’s speech.”
The light from the candles wasn’t very bright, but Gene thought he could see a small tear glistening in Sam’s eye.
“You trying to give me food poisoning then, like Gordon Banks, with this food, Tyler?”
“Sorry Guv, I’m not sure what you’re getting at. I thought you’d like Mexican for a change.”
Mrs Hunt had gone to her sister’s (Christmas shopping Gene thought), so Sam, as was his custom on such occasions, had invited Gene back to his flat.
“Don’t they watch football on the telly in Hyde? You telling me that you don’t know why we lost that quarter final when we were up to retain the cup?” Gene sighed deeply and glared at Sam. “Where’ve you been for the last few years?”
Sam felt it was easier not to answer that question and so asked instead who the match had been against.
“You’re worse than the missus is, Gladys,” Gene began. Any further explanations were cut short as the flat was plunged into darkness. “B****y power cuts”
“It’s okay, I’ve got some candles in here,” the muffled voice of his DI came from the depths of a cupboard. He passed them out and Gene lit them with his lighter.
“Very festive,” he grumbled. “Speaking of which, what you doing over Christmas?”
“Dunno yet. I’ve put myself down for several shifts so the others can see family. Thought I’d maybe have a go at one of Delia’s recipes.”
“Not going to see your poncy mates in Hyde then?”
Sam’s head shake told Gene that his younger colleague would be spending any time he wasn’t in the office alone in his rundown flat.
“You’d better come to us then. It’s just me and the missus this year and she always cooks enough for a small army.” Sam made as if to object. “And she’ll be glad to have someone to talk to who doesn’t snore their way through the Queen’s speech.”
The light from the candles wasn’t very bright, but Gene thought he could see a small tear glistening in Sam’s eye.
