Lentils

You learned a great deal in the waiting room, said Pliny the Elder.

I did indeed, I said.

But did you ever find out......began Pliny.

.....about the stacked lenticular clouds? I said, finishing his sentence.

That was not what I was going to ask, said Pliny, but by all means enlighten me if you have learned something ......

I learned, I said, that lenticular clouds are so-called because they are shaped like lenses.

That is fascinating, said Pliny. Because lenses are so-called because they look like lentils.

Oh yes, I remember looking that up once. So they are, I said. And it's funny, because lenticular clouds don't look much like lentils.

Are you sure? said Pliny. You did say they were pink.

I said they looked like macaroons, I said.

A macaroon, said Pliny, looks like a giant lentil.

Well yes, I said, but it's a bad analogy. A lentil is too small to look like a cloud.

Nonsense, said Pliny. Compared to what? A macaroon?

A macaroon is a lot bigger than a lentil, I said. But now you have got me thinking.

What about? asked Pliny.

Optics, I said.

Good, said Pliny. Soon you will begin to ponder how it is that the relative sizes of lentils, clouds and macaroons are all able to be accommodated in the tiny space afforded by our lenses.

Oh, very good Pliny, I said. Now, what was it you were really going to ask me?

For a moment Pliny looked as though he had forgotten.

Lenses, he muttered. Oh yes, the photographer! Did you ever find out why Barbie's boyfriend was called Skovoola?

The Waiting Room

I'm in the very corner of the eye doctor's waiting room, waiting.

I'm waiting for my mum who's having an injection in her eye. I don't want to think about it. I'm reading my book.

It's The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, by Rainer Maria Rilke, and I just started it this morning.

The waiting room is full of old people, waiting for their drops to take effect, and the people who have come with them, reading magazines. The youngest person in the room is the receptionist.

An old woman in a blue coat comes in. I'm early because I caught the bus, she says. But your appointment is tomorrow, says the receptionist. The old woman turns to leave.

My book is not the best one to be reading. Once, says Rilke, people knew that they bore their death within them, like the stone within a fruit. These days (1910) you die as you happen to die; you die the death that comes with your illness.

I look over at the magazine rack. Tucked down the side is a yellow children's book called Bunny and His Friends.

I wish I was reading that.