Parrotts family pub & dining

<snip>
We finally reached the promenade entrance and found it to be nicely repaired and several of the shops reopened by the rodent like life forms evolved there. “Come on,” Wolf said, “Parrots is this way.”
“I thought we were going to have tea?” Seymour questioned, maybe a bit disappointed from the sound of it.
<end snip>

I had been terribly excited about seeing the Promenade open again, even if it was by some disgusting oversized vermin. But how could I complain? The hard working service industry has always been championed by the filthy underclasses, and to be honest we needed them. I just wish they didn't smell so bad. For some reason we veered away from the lovely looking tearoom that I'd picked out, and I was dragged into Parrotts bar, lead by Mr Whitewolf, which I immediately considered odd, because he wasn't normally one to need a pint so badly.

Of course I could have gone to the tearooms on my own, which I might have immensely preferred, alas the sight of the owner immediately put me off. I looked across the street and saw him frantically scrubbing cheese off the white patio tables, then turned to me and beckoned me over. He had a fluffy moustache and gelled back hair on his ratty head. I was immediately disheartened by the greasy fellow, I expected him to also speak in a smarmy Spanish accent. I ignored him and continued into Parrotts with the other chaps, including the prisoners.

So we entered the establishment, and a rat who I assumed was the new proprietor ushered us to the seats. One has never been a fan of this disgusting place, which I associate with drunken layabouts and the lower classes. Fortunately I was pleasantly surprised, the sticky carpet was gone, and the grubby marks on the walls and ceiling had been freshly painted.
Unfortunately however (and this was a problem for Mr Chrysler too, as I noticed the disappointment on his face) the clientèle in Parrotts hadn't only been replaced by rodents, they'd also been replaced by children. Apparently we'd missed the sign above the entrance that said “Family pub & dining”.

It was all I could do to stop myself from running away screaming, and I saw Mr Chrysler almost break into tears again. A family pub? With children running about? Laughing and screaming and noisy children? Not only that of course, but they were rat children, which it turns out are worse than regular children. They didn't merely contain themselves to the ball pit and play area, they jumped around the room, from table to table, and ran around playing games of hide and seek and other such immature nonsense.

However, the team persevered, with actually more dilligence than a standard away mission. Chrysler sat his wife and the other STCP agents down at a family table, whilst he and Mr Febuggure went to the bar to buy drinks.

So I pushed my wheelchair up against the table, and sat with three prisoners and Miss Jones. It was terribly uncomfortable, but I'm not sure who was most embarrassed to be there, was it Mrs Chrysler (or Ms Salter, as I was later told she preferred being called), was it Miss Jones, who was giving Ms Salter what some unintellectuals would describe “the evil eye”, was it the STCP agents who didn't seem to know what was going on and why they were in a pub, or was it I, who absolutely couldn't wait to get out of this child-infested hellhole?

It was I.

“I will help Mr Chryler with the drinks.” I said, pushing myself away from the table. I didn't actually know how I could help, unless they used me as some sort of tray on wheels, yet I couldn't stand the tension at all.
“No, no, you stay here, I'll do it.” Said Miss Jones, pushing my wheelchair back to the table, which I thought was extremely rude.
I watched her walk up to the bar towards her lover, who had been looking back at us occasionally, clearly talking about his estranged wife to Mr Febuggure.

This was awkward. I was sat facing the prisoners who just glared at me. Again I wondered why we were here. I felt like I needed to create smalltalk. As experienced as I am at social functions, I could not think of a single thing to say.
“So what's the weather like in...” Damn. That was a bad start. Where were these people from? All I knew is that they could travel through time and space, yet I couldn't ask about the weather in “all time and space” could I? Even if they could answer that, it would be too much information for me to take in all at once. Then what would my reply be? 'That's nice' perhaps? Falling back to that old chestnut?

No, I abandoned the sentence and tried again. I know these people were extremely well travelled, so I decided to learn about where they have travelled. I know that asking “Are you going on holiday this year?” is a question for hairdressers, so I tailored to to something more specific, possibly showing my extensive knowledge of history.
“Have you been to Pharos in the 250th Century BC?”
Excellent question, I was proud of it, it combined history and travel. I could ask them about the magnificent lighthouse at Alexandria.
“Not recently.” Replied the one called Chambers. And that was it.
Damn. I thought that one was a gem, but clearly wasn't. But I was willing to persist.
“What about Eboracum in the 100th Century AD, later known as the marvellous city of York?”
Ms Salter shrugged. “I suppose.” She said.
Excellent. Some common ground at last. I could pursue this further.
“What do you think of that danelaw...?” nothing. “Did you see evidence of the cult of Mithras the Persian god? What's your opinion of that?” still nothing. These people were harder to converse with than Efof, who I could see sat on the next table playing with salt and pepper pots as if they were Daleks fighting each other.

“Excuse me.” I said and pushed my wheelchair away from the table, almost running over a rat child, and joined Mr Chrysler at the bar. “What is taking so long, and why are we even here?!” I asked.