Four men had gathered at their usual lunch venue for their Friday Review as they often referred to it. The first, who wore his mufti day clothes of camel jacket with top stitching and patch pockets, coupled with a red and white poplin shirt, had secured a table for two and then pulled the neighbouring table together to make it four. He had then spent the time waiting for the remaining guests by texting them on SMS and WhatsApp to ensure that he did not look foolish having merged the tables. Eventually Francis arrived in his navy power suit and white twill shirt, his initials embroidered in his liver in white, his shoes black and well-polished. He was holding his Blackberry as though it was foreign to his hands, placing it in his inside breast pocket as he seated himself. The two were quiet as they waited for the remaining two to join; and only once all four were seated did a familiar rapport begin to take hold on the conversation.
“Yesterday lunch time at Ucello…” began Damien.
“Where, at the Ivy Pool?” interjected Rich.
“Yes, yesterday, we were there for lunch and the sun was out and already the girls were looking smoking hot!”
“Ahhahahaaha” chuckled the rest in unison.
“Not bad on the next table Franco” said Rich.
“Uh, Ivy pool bar is so trashy” said Simon.
“I hear it is because they have Men’s Gallery there that they just tell all the girls to come up at lunch. That’s what I heard” said Rich with quiet authority.
“Well, what do I care, I mean, it’s eye candy at the end of the day, I am not intending to take them home to meet my mother, or my wife for that matter” chortled Damien.
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