"Do you eat meat?"

I've just had a very peculiar conversation at my local milk bar, which I'd gone to in order to drop off some dry cleaning (two dress shirts - one white with a wing collar, the other a black Gothic number - and a suit coat in case you were curious).

As the tired-looking Vietnamese woman behind the counter was serving me, a younger woman was serving a bearded bloke in his mid 40's at the counter opposite. He had the gaunt, ruddy look of an alchoholic, and as she rang up his single purchase, he began talking, although not actually conducting a conversation with anyone save himself. Two plump children, sapped of energy by the heat, lay prone on the floor behind the counter.

When the younger woman spoke to one of the kids in her own tonugue, her scruffy, bearded customer snarled, "Speak English!"

Without thinking of the possible consequences, I snapped, "Why should she?" across the counter at him.

He glared at me. I glared back. The two women behind the counter went about their business.

"What'd'ya mean by that?" he demanded querolously.

I just glared, and after a brief moment he glanced away.

"I was only joking," he muttered, before arcing up again. "5RAR battalion, Vietnam. You should join the Army, mate, instead of protesting."

Then he slowly meandered out of the shop carrying the single can of VB he'd just purchased, together with two white polyurethane trays he had tucked under one arm.

I took my drycleaning docket and strolled out, wondering if the bloke would be waiting outside.

He was. He was smaller than me, thinner, and fixed me with a stare from under the brim of his baseball cap that was both puzzled and irate.

"I'm not a racist mate," he said after a moment. "I've got an aboriginal wife. I was only joking."

I paused, sized him up, decided he wasn't going to try and deck me, and answered, "You may have been joking, but no-one else knew that. What you said sounded racist. It's what it appeared to be that's the problem, mate. You should be more careful."

He blinked, staring at me with bloodshot and uncomprehending eyes. Then he said something really strange.

"Do you like meat?'

I blinked.

"What? Uh, yes. I'm not a vegetarian, if that's what you mean."

He proffered the two shrink-wrapped polyurethane trays towards me, displaying an assortment of chops.

"I just stole these from Safeway..." he said, trailing off.

He was trying to sell them to me.

"No thanks mate," I told him. "I hardly ever cook."

I turned away, came home, and wrote this.