The sun sets.
On the beach in front of the hotel, a colourful canopy has been erected.
Festooned with lanterns.
Tables set with white tablecloths.
Soup spoons.
What?
Soup spoons. There is soup on the menu.
Look at that, says Kobo, observing.
At what? grumbles Ageless. His dent is aching.
Soup spoons. They must be going to have soup. It's a proper sit down. How will that suit the Barbados racer? Do snakes sit down?
Kobo, beloved, says Ageless. She is no more invited than you are. Your imagination runs riot.
Oh yes, says Kobo. I keep on forgetting. I wonder when she'll turn up, and what she'll be wearing.
Ageless sighs. Kobo has been less astute since she came to Barbados.
Terence is dancing about in the sand.
Look, a big pot's coming!
Reception is carrying a large soup tureen and placing it on a side table.
Several people walk across from the hotel to the canopy, dressed in fresh clothes.
They chat loudly about Otometrics, sales targets and their children, who are not in Barbados.
Drinks are served, decorated with flowers, straws and paper umbrellas.
It is so lovely. Where is the Barbados racer?
Kobo looks into the darkness that surrounds the bright shimmering centre.
Ah. Here she is now.
.......
I smell soup, says the Barbados racer. I like soup.
Me too, says Terence. But only red soup.
It smells like cream of yellow split pea with bread and butter, says the Barbados racer.
Hello, dear, says Kobo. You came.
I was invited, says the Barbados racer. Who's your friend?
Ageless lobster, meet the Barbados racer, says Kobo.
Tangerine, says the Barbados racer.
Another smell? says Ageless rudely. He has taken an instant dislike to the Barbados racer. Tangerine! O yes. An adventuress of the old school.
She ignores him.
I'll just pop over and see where I'm sitting, says Tangerine. Excuse me.
She slithers over the sand to the bright canopy, where the soup is.
Various screams are heard, from the early arrivals.
Reception legs it back to the office and returns with a sack, and a prong.
Sunday, April 9, 2017
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