Monday, November 18, 2013
The more alternatives, the more difficult the choice.
Real November weather. Thick, swirling, Dickensian mist. The ground wet and chill underfoot. Bob and Sophie aren't fussed. They rush out of the front door and disappear into the fog. Sophie lets out one quick yelp of delight as if to say '' This is going to be the best day ever ".
The beer and absinthe crowd do not like the fog. The damp has forced them from their table under the arcades to a table by the working radiator in the backroom of the bar. Bob and Sophie's arrival generates a brief flicker of interest, a half hearted chorus of ' Salut Bhub, Bonjour Soffee ' then the early morning imbibers are back off to glumland. Why Bob warrants a 'salut' and Sophie gets a ' bonjour ' one of those mysteries of the French language.
To the bakers. Bob stands outside the shop. He's simultaneously trying to chase his tail while making strange ' I'm not going to let on how excited I am ' facial contortions. His overbite much in evidence. Sophie lets out her patented ' I'm being tortured with cattle prods ' howl of joy. The bakers wife gives them half a handful of choux pastry. PON heaven. I find myself laughing out loud.