Inanimate Object

Yesterday I went to London for the day. I was supposed to go with my best beloved Andrea, but she couldn’t make it, so I took one of my other best beloved’s, Alex. I am blessed that I have a plethora of best beloveds to choose from.

We drove in the pelting rain, and as we got to the city I love like one of my own children, the sun came out. It was a sign that turned out to be an omen.

We had lunch, we went to see the play The Flick, at The National Theatre. We sat outside afterwards, in the sunshine, drinking coffee and watching Londoners enjoy the treat of an afternoon without torrential rain.

Alex went off on a date shortly afterwards, and I spent forty, glorious minutes alone in Foyles, browsing. I moseyed back to where my car was parked, stopping off en-route to treat myself to supper and a few, uninterrupted chapters of my book, and drove home, listening to James in session on the Jo Whiley show on the radio.

Perfect.

Made more perfect by the conversation I overheard between a mother and her teenage son at the interval of the play.

Mum: ‘You’re going to the Edinburgh festival this year aren’t you?’

Son: ‘Yes!’

Mum: ‘Did you hear that Jane’s going again?’

Son: ‘Yeah. She said. She’s being a tree.’

Mum: ‘What?’

Son:’Yeah, a tree, or something. Grass, maybe?’

Mum: ‘What?’

Son: ‘She’s been cast as an inanimate object.’

Mum: ‘That won’t make her very happy. She was a rabbit last year.’

 

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