Waiters come in many guises. So, when I go to a restaurant, I like to assess the person who waits on my table before I engage with them. It’s a habit which, after many years, has become subconscious, rather than deliberate.

The ‘over fussy’ type who can’t do enough, is painful and hard to stop. He buzzes around like a fly in a bottle, constantly moving things on the table as though he is playing a game of chess.

The ‘surly one’ shoves the menu under your nose and presumes you can only read one word at a time. Then when he returns to the table you are about to leave and go to MacDonald’s next door. He’s in the wrong job.

The ‘actor’ recites the menu verbatim, then clasps his hand together and smiles, proud of his achievement, while he waits for you to applaud his outstanding performance. When none is forthcoming, he looks down on you in disgust, as you order a cheese omelette, the only item he forgot to tell you about.

The ‘top-up expert’ really gets up my nose. He can’t imagine how anyone can drink wine from a glass that isn’t overflowing. He persists in refilling your glass, living in hope you will buy another bottle of wine, as he gets a commission on every one you drink. Whether you are enjoying your food is of no consequence to him.

Then there’s the ‘clearance specialist’. You know; the one who never asks but always assumes he knows better than you, when you have finished eating, and whisks your plate away just as you are about to put your fork into a nice juicy piece of meat. I always have a steak-knife at the ready, when he comes near the table. He’s my pet hate.

Sometimes, you find the brilliant, quick-witted ‘mind surgeon’, who can spot and remove the cancer of arrogance from a person with surgical precision without anaesthetic.

It was one of those days my editor sent me on an assignment from hell. I had to take Lady Dreadlock to lunch at the Ritz. Here’s what happened.

“Here comes that frightful waiter, at last,” she sighed taking a swig of her pink gin, making sure the man was in earshot as she continued. “I don’t know where they get them from these days, do you Dinkie, darling?”

“I can’t imagine Virginia”, said I, expecting the worst was about to come.

“Would you like a starter Ma’m? the waiter enquired.

“Yes, I would, but not from the menu. They look so boring and unappetizing. What specials do you have today?”

I detected a sly look in my direction just before he answered. “We have a choice of two Ma’m. Chilled Armadillo’s testicles, a favourite with the ladies, or Camel’s Eye in Aspic.”

“The Camel’s Eye in Aspic sounds good. I’ll have that.”

Before he left the table, no doubt hoping the chef could solve his self-inflicted problem, I looked at him and mouthed, ‘touché’.

I’ll leave the rest to your imagination.