POER FOREVR continued

Where was I? Oh yes, under the clock in Burnside Village. It was only half past eleven, and mum wanted lunch.

It wasn't her fault. She had a dental appointment at two o'clock and I suppose she wanted to get lunch out of the way and brush her teeth in the ladies' washrooms before large numbers of ladies began to flood them. I say washrooms, because I don't like to say toilets in this context, but of course, I mean toilets. And of course, I don't literally mean flood them.

Now I was determined to delay a little because I don't like to eat lunch at half past eleven. But I agreed to start looking around. We looked at Jardines on the Square, VP's, and Ushi Sushi, and the Village Bakery. We chose the Bakery. Then we looked at quiches and muffins and pies, cakes and smallgoods and cheeses until quarter to twelve. Oh, let's eat now, said mum. Alright I said. I said it because I am and have always been perfectly willing to eat lunch at quarter to twelve.

The Village Bakery is small and almost entirely filled by the counter. Customers have to sit at a long table half in and half out of the shop. Mum sat in the shop and I sat jutting into the mall. I was eating a vegetarian sandwich with squashy vegetables inside the bread. Mum was eating a quiche and salad, with brown stuff drizzled over the top. Two seats down from mum in the corner was wedged an old lady drinking coffee and slowly eating a scone. It was obvious she didn't think it was lunchtime.

To be continued.....

The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat

The Hungarrian hung up soon after that. Perhaps he was offended.

But the hat, which was a pork pie hat, really had looked as though it was enjoying itself. It was tucked into the crack at the back of the seat, which resulted in its brim being slightly elevated, giving the impression that it was smiling. Or so I thought, when I looked at it. A musical hat. you see them sometimes.

Musical umbrellas now, you see a lot of those. They come to the concerts and they cry and cry, particularly if it's been raining. Their tears run down the floorboards all the way to the front of the stage. Pathetic really. But then, they don't get out much.

In the cold weather we notice a lot of musical coats. They usually have a seat to themselves, and they fold themselves up small and really concentrate on the music. But they never clap, because they never enjoy it, because they have cloth ears.

I've seen a few musical pencils over the years as well. They don't appear to like music very much at all. They sometimes make a show of tapping in time but usually they just doodle, or catch up on their homework.

Once there was, to my certain knowledge, under one of the seats, a musical quiche.....

Come on Bela! You believe me don't you?

Cockroaches Have Eaten It

The second Lunch Hour Concert of the year. Pliny's mum was late. She'd had to catch a tram and arrived with just ten minutes to spare. So she had in her handbag a half eaten quiche that was exuding grease into an orange handkerchief. She was not very happy to see that the grease had smeared all over her glasses case as well. She placed the half quiche underneath her seat, wrapped in a paper tissue. Don't let me forget it, she warned Pliny.

The programme was Three Songs, Letters From Composers, and Three Seguidillas, sung by Emma Horwood, accompanied on the guitar by Aleksandr Tsiboulski. Emma is tiny and pretty with a high pure soprano voice. Aleksandr is tall and Ukranian and looks a bit like Tin Tin, if Tin Tin had brown hair.

Pliny liked the Letters from Composers best. Who would have thought to set such letters to music? Chopin describes his camp bed and desk to a friend. Bach complains to the Leipzig Town Council. Puccini longs for the country. I am panting for the free movement of my belly in wide trousers and no waistcoat, sings Emma, gently patting her tummy.

The Seguidillas were extraordinary. The second one went like this:

Girl, what of your virginity, what's happened to it?
The cockroaches, mother, have eaten it.
You're lying, girl, because cockroaches don't have teeth.

Emma sang it in Spanish, in which no doubt it was equally insane.

Nobody laughed though. It was high art after all. When it ended, Pliny and her mum picked up the half eaten quiche and walked out of the auditorium, down the foyer stairs, and waited politely near the front door while a lady who had slipped and sat down on her bottom was picked up by her friends.