Disconcerting

I don't think there'll be too many people at this one, said my mum.

Oh I don't know, Niki Vasilakis has been on television, I said. It depends, I added, trying not to be too argumentative.

We took a long time over lunch and arrived at the Elder Hall right on one o'clock.

There were hardly any seats left. We had to sit on the front row at the extreme left, up against the wall.

From there Niki Vasilakis was visible only through the oblique railings of the steps that led up to the stage.

The musical notes of the Kodaly and the Ravel flew by us sideways, hit the back of the hall and bounced back to our ears on the front row so that we were the last to hear them.

Directly in front of me on the stage was a big black shiny piano, which was not being played. As the violin cried out with a heart-rending mournful sound I realised that should the piano move towards me in a straight line and continue to do so after reaching the edge of the stage, that is, move towards me over the gap at a height of about one metre off the floor, I would be pronged in the neck by three golden piano pedals.

Did you manage to see her dress? asked my mum, when it was over.

Well..... yes, I answered, trying not to give the impression it had been easy.

Perhaps it was my eyes, she said, but did you think it looked like that famous French painting? Of course it was difficult to tell because of the angle. It was cut in two by the seam.

You may be right, I said, but I didn't think so.

Contradictions

It's last night. Well, no it can't be, but let us say that it is. I am trying to delete a comment on Facebook.

It came about like this. Dresses are in, this summer. I've been making myself a dress. Getting carried away, I mentioned it several times on Facebook. Eventually my daughter took the bait. Who is the mysterious dress for? she wrote. Are you afraid it is for you? I replied. Yes, she answered. Fear not, said I, it is for me.

Then, in order to show her that, had I made the dress for her, she would have liked it, I took a photo and uploaded it onto my page. What do you think? I asked.

Last night we had a conversation in which the dress figured briefly. Suffice to say that after this I decided to delete both the photograph and the final question, 'what do you think ?', as now I knew the answer.

So, it is last night. I am trying to delete a comment. I press delete. Are you sure you want to delete this comment, says Facebook, rudely.

Yes, I say.

Your comment is deleted, says Facebook.

Good, I say.

But a few minutes later I see that my comment is still there.

I press delete.

This comment has already been deleted, says Facebook. The comment does not exist.

Well, I think to myself, I can see it. Where does that leave me?