Possibly part of a bigger project, this is a short piece of faction set in a location very close to home:
A summer shower has painted the table next to me with seeds of sunlight. The table at which I sit is dry, protected from the rain and sun shaded by a parasol, the only moisture on its white metal surface from my slopped tea and the brown coffee ring left by the previous occupant. The earth, parched as it had been, soaked up the droplets of rain as quickly as they landed, but the grass has retained enough moisture to darken the denim-clad backsides of the girls sitting on the bank opposite me.
The confidence of these kids is amazing, pretty girls laughing at the terrible jokes of the cock-sure boys trying to impress them. Between the jokes the boys whisper, thinking the girls don’t hear, while the girls say more to each other with their eyes and gestures than the boys can ever imagine. They swig water from bottles with plastic teats not so very different from the bottles of formula that mothers, only a couple of years older than them, push between the reluctant lips of screaming infants elsewhere in the park. The boys are stripped to the waist; thin brown bodies that burn calories like candles consuming wax and energy levels that could power lighthouses. Those girls not wearing jeans or shorts wear tiny summer dresses, occasionally flashing pastel coloured knickers to the boys whose eyes are tuned to every twitch of thigh and hip. I find that aspect of watching them discomforting, feeling like a dirty old man despite the fact that they fall naturally within my line of sight and I was sitting here first.
A few years ago there would have been a bandstand between me and them. Bands never played there but toddlers often did, relishing the perceived danger of the raised stage while finding comfort in the safe boundary it provided for them. Their mothers would sit in a halo on the grass surrounding them, pushchairs loaded with fresh nappies and lidded cups of juice standing sentry beside them while they chatted and lazed. They rested like cats; one eye open and ever vigilant, minds and bodies relaxed yet simultaneously set to leap forward at the first sign of danger. They earned these afternoon respites with sleepless nights and chore-filled mornings and evenings, with rainy days spent in lockdown with frustrated kids who couldn’t understand why the sun didn’t shine every day or why golden time couldn’t last 24/7.
Been there. Done that. They could never imagine how much harder it would be to be a dad in that position, trying to spot and avoid the predators while constantly negotiating that dangerous territory between friendships and suspicious husbands. I swear if I was doing it again I’d pretend to be gay, but then I’d probably just be courting a different set of prejudices.
At the beginning of the week I posted this on facebook:
HaHa! No more of that boring old green broccoli for me! Nor any of that horrible, work-a-day purple sprouting stuff beloved by gastro-pubs everywhere! Oh, dear me no; for today, in Waitrose, I discovered *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli - yes, my friends, *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli...
Well, to be totally honest it's more of a greeny-yellow than golden, but if definitely ain't green, and it definitely ain't purple, and who in their right minds would want to eat something with a wishy-washy name like 'greeny-yellow broccoli when they could be eating something called *GOLDEN* broccoli? Anyhow, one thing you CAN be certain about is that it will be 100% better than green or purple broccoli, because it is A - new, B- more expensive, C- comes from Waitrose and D- *GOLDEN*...
Bet you're all puking with envy, ent ya. Goo on, admit it, ent ya ent ya ent ya. You're probably green with envy - just like common old green broccoli. (Green, that is, of course, not envious. I have no idea if vegetables can feel envy but suspect not, especially after being separated from their root systems and packed in plastic trays)...
So there you have it, people, I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you that despite all the erroneous claims made by a certain phone network it is NOT orange. It is *GOLDEN*. :D
For anyone who might have been wondering, *GOLDEN * broccoli was a bit of a disappointment. It tasted no better than purple broccoli – slightly less good in terms of fullness of flavour, TBH – and the stems were stalky as hell. You know the bottom bit of asparagus that you’re not supposed to eat but sometimes when it’s really good asparagus you can? Well the stalks of *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli are stalky in the way that the bottom bits of asparagus are when it’s not really good asparagus and the bottom bits aren’t edible. So if you do buy some, don’t eat the ends. In fact, take my word for it and don’t bother buying it in the first place. In fact, if you happen to be in Waitrose and see it ask to speak to the manager and ask them if they can change the description from *GOLDEN* Sprouting Broccoli, to *GOLDEN* Stalky Flavourless Broccoli...
IN OTHER OTHER NEWS:
This Saturday I will be the oldest swinger in town, taking Ben and his BFF to a concert at a local refurbished public convenience. I will leave them to the mosh pit and indulge myself with several pints of whatever beer they serve in refurbished-toilet-cum-live-music-venues these days, perhaps swaying gently or tapping my foot at those passages of music that meet with my approval. I hope that the outing will take some of the sting out of the line-up details for The Hop Farm Festival this year that said son’s been waiting on. Nothing against Blob Dylan or Peter Gabriel, but not really relevant to most 14 year olds, are they? Or me, come to that. I’ll leave it to him to browse and research the list of ‘alsos’ that I’ve never heard of in the hope of finding something loud and dirty but won’t let him get carried away at the idea of Primal Scream being there, ‘cos last time they only did four or five songs and none of them from the albums we really like... Poor wee fella, too young for Glastonbury or going it alone and a three day local festival that has plenty of pensioner appeal but not, at first glance, much for the under fifties at all. Ho hum...
bloggy bits and bobs
Possibly part of a bigger project, this is a short piece of faction set in a location very close to home:
A summer shower has painted the table next to me with seeds of sunlight. The table at which I sit is dry, protected from the rain and sun shaded by a parasol, the only moisture on its white metal surface from my slopped tea and the brown coffee ring left by the previous occupant. The earth, parched as it had been, soaked up the droplets of rain as quickly as they landed, but the grass has retained enough moisture to darken the denim-clad backsides of the girls sitting on the bank opposite me.
The confidence of these kids is amazing, pretty girls laughing at the terrible jokes of the cock-sure boys trying to impress them. Between the jokes the boys whisper, thinking the girls don’t hear, while the girls say more to each other with their eyes and gestures than the boys can ever imagine. They swig water from bottles with plastic teats not so very different from the bottles of formula that mothers, only a couple of years older than them, push between the reluctant lips of screaming infants elsewhere in the park. The boys are stripped to the waist; thin brown bodies that burn calories like candles consuming wax and energy levels that could power lighthouses. Those girls not wearing jeans or shorts wear tiny summer dresses, occasionally flashing pastel coloured knickers to the boys whose eyes are tuned to every twitch of thigh and hip. I find that aspect of watching them discomforting, feeling like a dirty old man despite the fact that they fall naturally within my line of sight and I was sitting here first.
A few years ago there would have been a bandstand between me and them. Bands never played there but toddlers often did, relishing the perceived danger of the raised stage while finding comfort in the safe boundary it provided for them. Their mothers would sit in a halo on the grass surrounding them, pushchairs loaded with fresh nappies and lidded cups of juice standing sentry beside them while they chatted and lazed. They rested like cats; one eye open and ever vigilant, minds and bodies relaxed yet simultaneously set to leap forward at the first sign of danger. They earned these afternoon respites with sleepless nights and chore-filled mornings and evenings, with rainy days spent in lockdown with frustrated kids who couldn’t understand why the sun didn’t shine every day or why golden time couldn’t last 24/7.
Been there. Done that. They could never imagine how much harder it would be to be a dad in that position, trying to spot and avoid the predators while constantly negotiating that dangerous territory between friendships and suspicious husbands. I swear if I was doing it again I’d pretend to be gay, but then I’d probably just be courting a different set of prejudices.
--------------------------------------------------------
IN OTHER NEWS:
At the beginning of the week I posted this on facebook:
HaHa! No more of that boring old green broccoli for me! Nor any of that horrible, work-a-day purple sprouting stuff beloved by gastro-pubs everywhere! Oh, dear me no; for today, in Waitrose, I discovered *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli - yes, my friends, *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli...
Well, to be totally honest it's more of a greeny-yellow than golden, but if definitely ain't green, and it definitely ain't purple, and who in their right minds would want to eat something with a wishy-washy name like 'greeny-yellow broccoli when they could be eating something called *GOLDEN* broccoli? Anyhow, one thing you CAN be certain about is that it will be 100% better than green or purple broccoli, because it is A - new, B- more expensive, C- comes from Waitrose and D- *GOLDEN*...
Bet you're all puking with envy, ent ya. Goo on, admit it, ent ya ent ya ent ya. You're probably green with envy - just like common old green broccoli. (Green, that is, of course, not envious. I have no idea if vegetables can feel envy but suspect not, especially after being separated from their root systems and packed in plastic trays)...
So there you have it, people, I’ve seen the future, and let me tell you that despite all the erroneous claims made by a certain phone network it is NOT orange. It is *GOLDEN*.
:D
For anyone who might have been wondering, *GOLDEN * broccoli was a bit of a disappointment. It tasted no better than purple broccoli – slightly less good in terms of fullness of flavour, TBH – and the stems were stalky as hell. You know the bottom bit of asparagus that you’re not supposed to eat but sometimes when it’s really good asparagus you can? Well the stalks of *GOLDEN* sprouting broccoli are stalky in the way that the bottom bits of asparagus are when it’s not really good asparagus and the bottom bits aren’t edible. So if you do buy some, don’t eat the ends. In fact, take my word for it and don’t bother buying it in the first place. In fact, if you happen to be in Waitrose and see it ask to speak to the manager and ask them if they can change the description from *GOLDEN* Sprouting Broccoli, to *GOLDEN* Stalky Flavourless Broccoli...
IN OTHER OTHER NEWS:
This Saturday I will be the oldest swinger in town, taking Ben and his BFF to a concert at a local refurbished public convenience. I will leave them to the mosh pit and indulge myself with several pints of whatever beer they serve in refurbished-toilet-cum-live-music-venues these days, perhaps swaying gently or tapping my foot at those passages of music that meet with my approval. I hope that the outing will take some of the sting out of the line-up details for The Hop Farm Festival this year that said son’s been waiting on. Nothing against Blob Dylan or Peter Gabriel, but not really relevant to most 14 year olds, are they? Or me, come to that. I’ll leave it to him to browse and research the list of ‘alsos’ that I’ve never heard of in the hope of finding something loud and dirty but won’t let him get carried away at the idea of Primal Scream being there, ‘cos last time they only did four or five songs and none of them from the albums we really like... Poor wee fella, too young for Glastonbury or going it alone and a three day local festival that has plenty of pensioner appeal but not, at first glance, much for the under fifties at all. Ho hum...
:D