There are three things that should never happen at the same time.
Firstly, two four-year-old boys should never arrive at a restaurant absolutely starving.
Secondly, two grown-ups should never discover that a lunchtime passion fruit margarita tastes far nicer than responsibility.
And thirdly, nobody—absolutely nobody—should attempt to understand a children’s menu designed by someone who clearly enjoyed watching adults question their own literacy.
Saturday morning had begun with excellent intentions.
Mrs Brand had spent most of it answering work emails with one hand whilst attempting to persuade Barry to wear matching socks with the other.
Marjory, Marmaduke’s mum—and a highly respected neurosurgeon who regularly dealt with the most complicated organ in the human body—had somehow spent twenty minutes negotiating with Marmaduke over whether dinosaurs preferred left shoes or right shoes.
“I think,” sighed Marjory, “we’ve earned lunch.”
“I agree,” replied Mrs Brand. “Let’s walk to Pizza Express.”
Alfie looked delighted.
Barry and Marmaduke looked as though Christmas had arrived six months early.
“PIZZA!”
“Can I have ALL the pizzas?”
“No,” said everyone.
The restaurant was only twenty minutes away.
Well…
Twenty minutes if accompanied by sensible adults.
Closer to forty if accompanied by Barry.
Within three minutes Barry had stopped to inspect a snail.
Within another five minutes he’d found what he insisted was “the world’s biggest stick.”
Within a further eight minutes Marmaduke had also acquired a stick because friendship apparently meant copying absolutely everything Barry did, including poor decisions.
By the time they reached Pizza Express, Alfie had developed the thousand-yard stare usually associated with air traffic controllers.
They were shown to a lovely table by the window.
Menus arrived.
Colouring sheets arrived.
Crayons arrived.
Peace lasted nearly fourteen seconds.
“I want orange juice,” announced Barry.
“I want apple juice,” said Marmaduke.
“No!” Barry gasped.
“I want apple too!”
“I don’t want apple anymore,” said Marmaduke.
“I want orange.”
Barry frowned.
“I don’t want orange now.”
The waitress smiled professionally.
She had seen things.
“What would you like to drink?” asked Mrs Brand.
“Lemonade.”
“Apple.”
“Water.”
“Milk.”
“Orange.”
“Grapes.”
“Chocolate.”
“Rain.”
Everyone stopped.
“What?”
Barry shrugged.
“I forgot.”
Alfie quietly raised one finger.
“Could I please have still water?”
The waitress actually smiled.
“A customer,” she whispered with genuine relief.
The grown-ups ordered two passion fruit margaritas.
“Just the one?” asked the waitress.
Mrs Brand looked at Marjory.
Marjory looked at Mrs Brand.
Both looked at the three children.
“Better make it two.”
The waitress nodded sympathetically.
She understood.
The drinks arrived.
The cocktails looked beautiful.
Golden.
Sparkling.
Decorated with half a passion fruit.
Mrs Brand took one sip.
“Oh…that’s dangerously nice.”
Marjory had a sip.
“Oh dear.”
“What?” asked Mrs Brand.
“I suddenly understand university.”
Now came the important bit.
The menu.
Specifically…
…the children’s menu.
Mrs Brand stared at it.
Marjory stared at it.
They tilted it sideways.
Then upside down.
Then sideways again.
“Am I being thick?” asked Mrs Brand.
“No,” said Marjory.
Pause.
“…Possibly.”
“There are prices next to everything.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s also one price at the top.”
“Yes.”
“So…”
“So…”
Neither spoke.
Barry was now licking the crayons.
Alfie quietly moved them further away.
“I think,” said Mrs Brand carefully, “it’s a set menu.”
“But then why are there prices next to everything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe they’re optional extras?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe that’s the price if your child is especially difficult.”
Mrs Brand nodded.
“Barry definitely costs more.”
The waitress returned.
“Ready to order?”
The two mothers looked at her with the hopeful expression of explorers who’d finally found civilisation.
“So…”
Mrs Brand began.
“…how does this menu work?”
The waitress blinked.
“It…”
She looked.
“…works.”
“That’s what we’re struggling with.”
She laughed politely.
Then stopped laughing when she realised they were serious.
Meanwhile…
Barry had reached the pizza section.
“I want pepperoni.”
“Lovely,” said Mrs Brand.
“No…”
Barry continued.
“…I want cheese.”
“Okay.”
“No.”
“Mushroom.”
“No.”
“Pepperoni.”
“No.”
“Pineapple.”
“No.”
Marjory rubbed her forehead.
“Barry…”
“I’M THINKING.”
Marmaduke looked inspired.
“I’ll have what Barry has.”
“What does Barry have?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
Excellent strategy.
Zero help.
“What side would you like?” asked Marjory.
“Garlic bread.”
“Lovely.”
“No.”
“Cucumber.”
“No.”
“Chips.”
“No.”
“Salad.”
The adults exchanged hopeful looks.
“…Actually no.”
Hope disappeared.
Alfie sighed.
“Could I just have the American pizza, please?”
“What drink?”
“Water.”
“Anything else?”
“No thank you.”
Mrs Brand stared at him.
“Did…”
“…did you just order?”
“Yes.”
“In one sentence?”
“Yes.”
“My goodness.”
Marjory dabbed an imaginary tear.
“They grow up so fast.”
The waitress patiently stood nearby.
Barry was now examining every picture.
“I like this pizza.”
“Wonderful.”
“But not the mushrooms.”
“We can remove them.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You don’t?”
“I don’t want THAT pizza.”
Mrs Brand blinked slowly.
Marmaduke pointed.
“I like that one.”
“Excellent.”
Barry leaned across.
“No you don’t.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t.”
Marjory closed her eyes for approximately six seconds.
The margaritas continued disappearing.
Not quickly.
Just enough to make the menu seem increasingly philosophical.
Mrs Brand frowned.
“Does this say dessert is included?”
“I thought it did.”
“No, perhaps that’s a drink.”
“Or perhaps…”
Marjory whispered…
“…we’ve forgotten how reading works.”
Both burst into laughter.
The waitress returned again.
Still smiling.
Professionals deserve medals.
“Any luck?”
Mrs Brand pointed dramatically.
“Can you explain this menu as though we’re five?”
Barry looked offended.
“I’m four.”
The waitress chuckled.
“It’s actually very simple.”
Those are dangerous words.
“You choose one main…”
“So far so good.”
“…one side…”
“Excellent.”
“…one dessert…”
“Wonderful.”
“…and one drink.”
Mrs Brand nodded confidently.
“Perfect.”
“So why are there prices beside everything?” asked Marjory.
“Oh.”
She looked.
“…Honestly?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve worked here three years.”
“Yes?”
“I’ve never known.”
Silence.
Then all three adults laughed so loudly that people at the next table laughed too, despite having absolutely no idea why.
Finally…
Finally…
Orders were placed.
Barry chose a pepperoni pizza.
Then changed to cheese.
Then changed back to pepperoni before the waitress escaped.
Marmaduke copied Barry.
Obviously.
Alfie quietly ate breadsticks whilst reading a children’s fact sheet about Italy.
Because of course he did.
The food arrived.
It looked magnificent.
The smell filled the restaurant.
Barry took one enormous bite.
His eyes widened.
“It’s hot!”
“Yes,” said Alfie.
“It’s pizza.”
Barry blew dramatically on it for nearly a minute.
Marmaduke copied him despite not having taken a bite yet.
Then came the inevitable accident.
Barry attempted to twirl a strand of melted cheese.
The cheese stretched.
And stretched.
And stretched.
Until it catapulted a tiny blob of tomato sauce directly onto his own forehead.
Not the table.
Not Marmaduke.
Not Mrs Brand.
His own forehead.
It sat there proudly like a tiny red jewel.
Nobody spoke.
Then Alfie quietly said…
“Fashionable.”
Even Barry laughed.
The desserts arrived.
Barry announced his ice cream was “the best ice cream in London.”
Marmaduke agreed instantly.
Even though he’d chosen chocolate brownie.
Alfie ate his dessert with knife and fork.
Barry watched him.
“Why are you eating it like that?”
“So I don’t wear it.”
Reasonable.
Barry considered this.
Then dropped a spoonful on his knee.
Eventually lunch ended.
Everyone was full.
Everyone was happy.
Even the waiter looked relieved.
Mrs Brand asked for the bill.
She looked at it.
Then laughed.
Marjory laughed too.
“What?” asked Alfie.
Mrs Brand held up the receipt.
“The children’s meals were exactly the set price.”
“And?”
“And all that confusion…”
“…was entirely unnecessary.”
Marjory smiled.
“In fairness…”
“…those margaritas didn’t exactly sharpen our mathematical abilities.”
Outside, the sunshine felt warm.
The boys skipped ahead.
Well…
Alfie walked sensibly.
Barry skipped.
Marmaduke attempted to skip whilst copying Barry, resulting in something that looked more like an enthusiastic kangaroo having a disagreement with gravity.
Mrs Brand smiled.
“Despite everything…”
“…that was lovely.”
Marjory nodded.
“It was.”
Barry looked up.
“Can we come again tomorrow?”
Mrs Brand laughed.
“Only if you decide what you want before we arrive.”
Barry frowned thoughtfully.
“I already know.”
“Oh?”
“I want pizza.”
“Excellent.”
“And chips.”
“Wonderful.”
“And ice cream.”
“Lovely.”
“And…”
Mrs Brand interrupted.
“Stop there.”
Barry grinned.
“I wasn’t finished.”
“Exactly.”
Alfie simply sighed and carried on walking home.
Someone in that family had to be the responsible one.
Fortunately for everyone else, it definitely wasn’t Barry.
Or Marmaduke.
And after two passion fruit margaritas…
…it wasn’t entirely the mums either.
Alfie, Barry and Marmaduke Stories 
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