The Waiter Offered to Take the Kitten Away, But a Six-Foot-Tall Gentle Giant Scooped Up the Fluffy, Crying Little Ball and Set Him on a Chair Beside Him: “A Plate for My Feline Friend! And Your Finest Meat!” — Let’s wear something bold—almost nymph-like—and head to the most exclusive restaurant in town. We’ll strut our stuff and size up the menfolk… This confident proclamation came from one of three friends—a headmistress of a prestigious and expensive private school. Her professional edge meant clever words were always at hand. These “nymphs” were thirty-five. The age, in their estimation, that called for short skirts and blouses more revealing than concealing. Plunging necklines, flawless makeup—the works. The chosen restaurant matched their ambitions: ritzy, stylish, ridiculously expensive. Indulgence was no issue here. Table booked, they settled in, instantly reeling in admiring glances from men—and openly icy ones from their partners. Naturally, conversation revolved around the biggest topic—men. They discussed dreams, expectations, and requirements. Each waited for her ideal: tall, fit, charming, and definitely wealthy. Someone to cherish, indulge every whim, never nag, and never burden her with chores. Blue blood? Even better. — Definitely not like those guys… The friends exchanged glances, nodding toward a table of three jovial, slightly portly men with receding hairlines. Pints, chips, piles of steak, and banter about football and fishing. Their laughter was loud, genuine, and unfiltered. — Dreadful. — So tacky. — Ugh. All agreed: unrefined, boorish, devoid of class—entirely unsuitable for such dazzling ladies. And then, something happened that changed everything. He entered—the man who arrived in the very latest cherry-red Ferrari. — Count Coburg Coldo Saxony! — announced the waiter ceremoniously at the door. The friends perked up as if retrievers catching a scent. Tall, trim, distinguished salt-and-pepper hair, a suit worth a king’s ransom. Diamond cufflinks, pristine shirt—a dazzling ensemble. — Ah… — Wow… — Mmm… Necklines dipped lower, looks grew openly inviting. — Now that’s a man, — murmured one. — A count, a stunner, a millionaire, — added another. — And I’ve dreamt of the Bahamas since childhood, by the way. The third said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes. Within ten minutes, the ladies were summoned to the count’s table. They strutted over, casting haughty glances around, especially at the trio with the beer. The count was charming, quick-witted, a master of polite conversation. He spoke of ancient heritage, family castles, and art collections. Tension simmered—the invitation to extend the evening would go to just one. Sumptuous dishes—lobsters, seafood platters, vintage wine—broke the tension. The women dined, their gazes dreamy, thoughts drifting far from the restaurant. Cheeks flushed—they looked their absolute best. The count sparkled—jokes, high society stories. Soon, it mattered little where the invitation would lead. A tiny garden adjoined the restaurant. Tempting aromas wafted out, luring a tiny, hungry, gray kitten from the bushes. He darted between tables, settling at the count’s feet, hopeful for affection. Big mistake. The count’s face twisted in disgust. With no hesitation, he kicked the kitten away. The little creature tumbled across the floor, hitting the table leg where the three beer-drinkers sat. Silence fell. — I detest filthy, mongrel beasts, — the count declared loudly. — My estate is for purebred hounds and thoroughbred horses. The waiter rushed to appease him: — We’ll take care of it, our apologies… As he approached the men’s table, one of them—almost six feet tall, crimson with rage, fists clenched—stood. His friends tried to hold him back. Without a word, the giant scooped up the kitten and placed him on a chair. — A plate for my fluffy friend! — he thundered. — Your finest meat. Now. The waiter paled and dashed to the kitchen. A round of applause swept the room. One of the “nymphs” stood, crossed to the giant, and declared: — Move over. And order the lady a whisky. The count was left speechless. Moments later, the other two friends joined them, casting the count only withering looks. When the women left, there was a new trio: a man, a woman, and a gray kitten. Time passed. Today, the first friend is married to the gentle giant—the owner of a major investment firm. The other two married his friends, now well-known barristers. All wed on the same day. Now, the former “nymphs” lead very different lives: nappies, cooking, cleaning. Daughters born almost simultaneously. For a night out at their favorite restaurant, they send husbands off to football or fishing, hire a nanny, and meet up to chat—about women’s concerns. About men. And Count Coburg Coldo Saxony? Within a year, he was arrested—a notorious marriage scammer who preyed on trusting women. Thank goodness, true gentlemen aren’t like that. I mean men like those three—with bellies, balding heads, no glamour, but truly noble hearts. That’s the way it is. Anything else just isn’t possible.

The waiter rushed over and offered to take the kitten away. But a towering man quickly scooped up the crying, fluffy little thing and settled him in the chair beside him. A plate for my feline friend! he boomed. And your finest beef, please!

Earlier that evening, one of my three close friends the headmistress of a top independent girls school announced with typical flair, Lets wear something daring, nearly as cheeky as the young lasses do, and head to the swankiest restaurant in London. Show ourselves off a bit, and see what the gentlemen are like

At thirty-five, we were hardly nymphs, despite her joking. Still, its a fine age for short skirts and blouses that flatter rather than conceal. Our necklines plunged, make-up immaculate: fully armed for battle, we chose our outfits with care.

Naturally, we booked a table at a spot fit for the occasion glitzy, prestigious, and jaw-droppingly expensive. But we could afford it, no question. Settling in, we soon caught approving glances from the men and more than a few glowering looks from the women with them.

As usual, our conversation drifted to men. We shared our hopes, our standards, our wildest wishes. We all dreamt of the ideal man: tall, athletic, effortlessly handsome, and of course, well-off. The sort who’d carry you across puddles, indulge your whims, never burden you with chores or bore you with pointless chatter. Bonus points if he came with a noble family, courtesy titles, and maybe a country estate.

Just not like those three over there One of us nodded towards a corner table, where three jovial, slightly paunchy men with receding hairlines were tucking into pints, crisps, and an absurd heap of steaks. Their banter revolved around football and fishing, laughter hearty and without a hint of pretence.

Ugh.
How crass.
Absolutely not.
Our verdict was unanimous: untidy, rough around the edges, and not a trace of sophistication. Then, everything changed in a heartbeat.

Into the restaurant strode Him the owner of the shimmering red Aston Martin parked outside.
Lord Coventry Saxon! the maître d announced grandly at the entrance.
We sat up straight, every bit as alert as hounds catching a scent.

Tall and upright, with distinguished silvering hair, his suit fitted to perfection and worth a small fortune. Diamond cufflinks and a brilliantly starched shirt completed the picture.

Oh my
Now, thats a man
Mmm
We inched our necklines down further, our eyes inviting and deliberate.

Thats the sort, whispered one.
Lordly, dashing, and a millionaire, breathed the second. Ive always dreamt of the Maldives since I was a little girl.
The third kept silent, but her gaze said more than anyone needed.

Less than ten minutes later, an invitation arrived dinner with the Lord himself. We walked to his table with regal airs, icy glances for the other guests, especially the trio with their pints.

His conversation was every bit as polished: tales of ancient family lineages, stately homes, and art collections. Underneath it all, a rising tension between us each of us knew only one would win the golden ticket to his favour after the meal.

The tension paused for food: lobsters, mountains of seafood, and exquisitely aged wine. We cast smouldering glances at Lord Coventry, our imaginations drifting far beyond the restaurant walls. Pink-cheeked, wed never looked lovelier.

He sparkled too jokes, stories, tidbits from high society. By then, none of us cared what he might suggest for the next adventure, as long as we were included.

Theres a garden behind the restaurant, and the aroma of exquisite cuisine drifted outside. Soon enough, a tiny grey kitten slid in from the garden, skinny and hungry, and stopped at Lord Coventrys feet, clearly hoping for a scrap of kindness.

He got none.

The noble Lords face twisted in disgust. Without hesitation, he nudged the kitten away with his shoe. The poor thing rolled across the floor and bumped into the leg of the very table, where the three boisterous men sat. Silence descended.

I loathe those filthy mongrels, the Lord sneered loudly. My estate is for thoroughbred hounds and the finest horses, not gutter pests.
The waiter scurried over. Terribly sorry, sir Ill handle it at once.

But one of the men easily six foot five, red-faced and enormous beat him to it. His friends tried to hold him back, but he calmly picked up the kitten and perched him on a chair.

A plate for my furry mate! he thundered. Bring the best beef you have. Right now.
The waiter paled and sprinted to the kitchen. The dining room erupted in applause.

One of us stood up silently, walked over to the giant, and said, Shift over. And get a lady a whisky.

Lord Coventry was speechless.

A minute later, the rest of us joined her, delivering withering looks to the dumbstruck Lord.

We left the restaurant in a new arrangement: three friends, a man, and one tiny grey kitten.

Time passed. The first among us married that gentle giant now the owner of a leading investment firm. The other two wed his mates, both respected solicitors. Our weddings were all celebrated together, one glorious summers day.

These days, our lives revolve around nappies, cooking, and cleaning. All of us, almost at once, became mothers to little girls.

For a treat, we still slip out to our favourite restaurant. On weekends, we send the boys off to football or fishing, hire a nanny, and gather again to gossip, talk about men, share our hearts.

Lord Coventry Saxon? He made headlines a year later arrested in a scandalous case. Marriage fraud, tricking women out of fortunes.

Thank goodness real gentlemen arent like that.

I mean those three paunches, bald spots, no fancy manners or airs, but hearts as noble as youll ever meet.

Thats how it was.

Honestly, I wouldnt have it any other way.