The Salad Snub Is Not Avenged
A sunny day, when I am required to be under a roof. Several sneaks outside, to plug myself into the summery buzz, admiring details in the cotton-tail clouds because I have my prescription sunglasses on. They aren’t quite so clever to take to the cinema but we sit close to the screen and 3D launches whizzy machines even closer. We love wearing our plastic glasses. I love peeking behind me and everyone is wearing the same glasses.
Mr and Boy chomp chocolates and sweets. I am crunching up a bag of rocket and a punnet of cherry tomatoes.
‘It will catch on,’ I insist; they are not at all convinced about the cinema salad bar future. Flying robot suits; they prefer that future. Not mutually exclusive: just greatly varying in degrees of enthusiasm.
Dry sky and clear views all the drive home.
Before the film, we sit at a pavement table with drinks; fizzy stuff for the lads, espresso for the lady. Polished pedicures swish past in fashionable sandals. It occurs to me that some of these people might wash their hair everyday, not just when they remember and if the water is warm. Some glamour is admirable: dressing up in the spirit of celebrating life, of everyday being worth some effort. A trip out is our day’s glamour moment.
I do not regret my shamelessly naked toenails, not even the broken one. I do wish I’d thought of a brilliant rocket-salad/rocket-suit pun, instead of boasting that I would be able to do a green poo with red polka dots.