Gilbert and George

This was an interesting exhibition, lots to see, and although I agree there were quite a few great pieces as well as few that were rather colourful and one has to admire them for that, these two individuals are clearly slightly deranged.
As I said to Hugo...I was hoping for more nudity. Still, few things made us laugh.

I adore Tate Modern, for all it has to offer, including the homemade scones with homemade jam and cream. I like to eat it sipping earl grey with soya milk and it is a real treat as I once had cream tea in Torquay, where you get a scone from Tesco, 10 scones for 89p pack with jam entirely made of E numbers and those colours that cause cancer and are banned across the EU countries.
Anyhow, the waiter comes over to take our order and I jovially order the scone, only to be told they are all gone.
Since I was hungry, I order alternative stuff, mourn for 30 minutes and promptly get over it.
Some minutes earlier, I was nagging Hugo to choose from two girls that sat near us, as to which one he would sleep with and I wasn't taking any of the usual crap he comes out with: "Neither. I don't know them etc..."
He finally picks one.

And just as I ate my meal, and we were ready for the second part of Gilbert and George, I notice that Hugo's chosen chick is eating a scone.
I swear that I felt blood rush to my head at once and I pull the nearest waiter to me by the T-shirt and explain how I ordered the scone and was told they are gone and look, there is someone eating a scone....
He apologises, explains that when I ordered it, they were out but they made a new batch and now there is some.
And he leaves.
I bitch ever so sadly and quietly to Hugo and decide to take that up with a manager. Our waiter comes over and I say to him: "Look there, what is that girl eating?"
He goes pale and explains that as they are homemade, he was told they are gone for the day as it was closing time soon, and then they made a batch for the next day and she was lucky to order it at the right time.
The other waiter comes again, and he has the smooth manner, you know, the right body language, touching you sympathetically, all nice, apologetic, hard to be a bitch towards...
I enter a polite argument over whose fault was that I was misinformed over the scone issue, as I would certainly wait for them to be baked?
He asks me what do I want him to do now?
I say nothing, and explain my disappointment by saying how I never eat scones anywhere else...
I also say to him: " Put yourself in my shoes....you go to see your favourite football club play and you get the ticket and at the start of the match, they tell you that your team is being replaced by another team..."
He thinks for a minute and goes: " Great metaphor. I get it now, I am sorry.", touches me sympathetically on the hand and leaves swiftly.
I turn to Hugo confused and say: " That was not a metaphor, that was an analogy, wasn't it? You're writing a MA dissertation in Literature, tell me, what was that? A metaphor or an analogy?"
Hugo says: " That was an analogy. You should complain to the manager after all. Not only did they not give you a scone, but his staff cannot use the English language properly."