Walking up Neal Street in Covent Garden, I saw a girl talking into a silver clam-shell phone.
“Why the fuck did I let Vladimir blow-dry my hair?” she barked. “It’s a total fucking…”
Carried by the blustery wind, her words disappeared into the distance.
As did she.
“What about a sweet?” said the fat lady to the fat lady in the Norfolk café.
But where’s the list, the second wondered.
“Behind you, you daft bugger!” said the first.
And there they were, written on a tiny blackboard in a loopy hand. Sticky toffee pud, apple tart and lemon meringue – all served with cream, ice cream, or cream and ice cream. Or cream, ice cream and maple syrup.
Number two shifted her bulk and craned her neck, her eyes lighting up as she saw the choice.
“Not very good for your cholesterol,” said fat lady number three, a hulking woman in a blue-and-white pinny, wedged behind a neighbouring table.
Number two thought about it for a minute. But just a minute.
“Never mind,” she said. “I’ll just take an extra pill afterwards.”
A lazy Sunday afternoon in the Suffolk countryside.