Vignette

A middle aged woman and a younger man sat at the table next to me at the cafe on Saturday morning. He was gay... very, very gay. Frankly, the Hindenburg was less flaming. However I gleaned this from his demeanor rather than his words, as his matronly companion did not stop talking, loudly, in a "look at moy" accent, at all, ever.


I was trying to read a newspaper article about water resource management, but all I could process was OH LOOK I GOT AN SMS. I WONDER WHO IT'S FROM. OH LOOK IT'S FROM MY EX-HUSBAND. I WONDER WHAT HE WANTS. HE PROBABLY JUST WANTS TO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY. OH LOOK HERE IT IS - HAPPY BRITHDAY FROM ALL OF US. I WONDER WHO ALL OF US IS. HE PROBABLY MEANS CHRISTINE AND THE GIRLS. WHERE'S OUR COFFEE? WHAT'S TAKING THEM SO LONG? I'D BETTER SEND HIM AN SMS. I MEAN MY EX-HUSBAND. IT WAS NICE OF HIM TO REMEMBER MY BIRTHDAY. I'LL JUST SMS HIM TO SAY THANKS. IT'S NICE TO GET AN SMS ON YOUR BIRTHDAY ISN'T IT. AT LEAST HE REMEMBERED. HOW DO I REPLY TO AN SMS ON THIS THING? I JUST HAVE TO OPEN...


In a perfect universe, I would have had a roll of duct tape handy to slap over her mouth. Of course, that would have given her friend more opportunity to express regret over his choice of shoes, which is what he talked about whenever she paused for breath. So there wouldn't have been much of a net gain.


In related news, my gradual slide into misanthropy continues apace.