It was late afternoon on Tuesday the 13th of August in 2002.
I had been having tea with a fairly well-known alternative comedian at a cafe on the Royal Mile.
As we left, he leant against a pillar at the entrance and we talked some more.
A middle-aged French woman approached us, nervousness in her eyes because of her bad English. She was clearly a tourist.
The plaintive-looking middle-aged Frenchwoman with big eyes, unsure of her English, asked us the question:
We looked at her.
“Iced tea?” she asked again, even more nervously.
She thought the comedian was a waiter.
“Yeah,” he replied to her, insulted. “I’ll just go and get it.”
The woman looked relieved as he walked out the open door.
As he was about to cross the street, he turned and asked her: “Small or large?”
“Small,” she replied. “Thank you.”
He smiled reassuringly to her and walked away across the Royal Mile.
I left as well.
The dividing line between comedy and psychopathy can be narrow.