Last night I went to a gastropub. It's extrordinary that the word “gastropub” represents something that I'm theoretically quite fond of, as phonetically it sounds more like a weeping lesion in the lower intenstine.

Anyway, this was a particularly pretentious gastropub, with the musical selection provided by an iPod in “Shuffle” mode, which didn't stop the mulleted, tight-t-shirted male staff feeling that they had to go and fiddle with it every 15 minutes. The food was brought to the table on wooden chopping boards. As you might be aware, chopping boards don't have edges, so foods in the “wet” category (gravies, sauces, juices and jus) tend to dribble off the edge, particularly if the slightly knackered but achingly chic tables are sloping off towards the wall. Jennifer had some kind of Scandinavian platter which, when placed on a board, looked more like a collection of objects carefully positioned for a still-life class.

The other side-effect of the edgeless board is that the mulleted, tight-t-shirted male staff can't pick them up with one hand. When it came to clear them all away one bloke spent a good 15 seconds manoeuvring one around the table trying to get a grip on it, and failing. I ended up sliding it to the edge of the table for him. But as this was an Islington gastropub, he was too busy being slightly aloof to say thank you. Similarly, when he brought the credit card receipts over, the pen accidentally flew out of his hand and into my left eye. But there was no “sorry” as I handed it back to him, no, he said “Yes, I'll have that.” I'm no fan of clearly demarcated strata of society – I mean, I know I've got a few slaves chained up in the flat, but hey, I'm a busy man – but at the end of the day, he's a waiter. If I'm leaving a 10% tip I think I can reasonably expect not to be injured by a biro, or at the very least an apology after being injured by a biro.