Arthur, while being shepherded like a particularly socially pressurable sheep, has to wonder whether it's his imagination or whether Ossie's hand is kinda sliding on his shoulder. Did Tommy's suddenly get a silk gloves section or what.

"Well, if it's not... that- that is, if you were going to anyway..."

He should be remembering to eat now more than ever -- he's never going to shift this malaise if he doesn't -- so maybe accepting Ossie's offer is worth the mixed feelings and the vague sense of dread. And the food will be good. And he'll avoid the inconsistency of the restaurants -- it's the inconsistency that really gets him; when the food arrives he can deal with it, but when he goes looking and doesn't find it, it scares him so badly that you'd think there wasn't a mostly-stocked buffet a few doors down. And that's why, no matter how much Crichton complains about it, there are loaves of bread multiplying in their wardrobe, and bottles of water taking over their bathroom cupboard.

His voice is keeping up appearances, but his face has slipped unintentionally into a flat-eyed and dull expression.

"That would, tea - tea would be nice as well. Thank you."