I
am seated between the two because that seems to be the safest arrangement. When
I suggested we walk to the park and take in the unseasonably warm sunshine,
perhaps with a latte in one hand and some reading matter in the other, I hadn’t
bargained on ending up in a war zone.
It
all started with the boy with the red hair. This boy, with more than a little
of the look of the Irish about him, met #6 at a quinceañera at the weekend.
(For the less worldly among you, a quinceañera is a fifteenth birthday party
for a Spanish girl, and a fancy affair it is too.) #6 and her friends had spent
the afternoon in our apartment, transforming themselves from the casual drama
students I know them to be into elegant and rather gorgeous young women. When
they emerged in a cloud of perfume and giggles, I was even too dumbstruck to
utter one of my usual pithy comments along the lines of ‘Well, you could at
least have put on makeup’ or ‘Where did those ugly bugs go?’
Anyway,
I digress. The boy with the red hair was obviously rather taken with #6, who
did indeed look more than a little fetching in a blue cocktail dress handed
down by her sister. So after the party he Snapchatted her and asked whether she
might like to go to the cinema the next time he was in the neighbourhood.
And
that’s when the trouble began. He Who Knows Best, on overhearing this news,
looked up from his Sudoku long enough to declare that we would be going along to
the ‘picture house’ as well, although we would make one concession and sit a
few rows further back. Seeing #6’s look of abject horror, he warmed to his
theme and started debating which of his many disguises he might adopt for this
particular outing. He appeared to be favouring a bandana and dark glasses,
perhaps with a leather jacket if it didn’t turn out to be too warm. As he
possesses neither a bandana nor a leather jacket, I was having a bit of trouble
picturing him in this get-up.
Not
too long into He Who Knows Best’s musings, #6 had a serious sense of humour
failure, at which point, being the peace keeper I am, I suggested the trip to
the park.
So
there we were in the West Village, sitting on the bench, watching a fat black
pigeon fancying his chances with any female bird that was foolish enough to
cross his path. ‘Will you look at that,’ I said, in an attempt to lighten the
mood. ‘They’re all the same, whatever the species.’
More
eye rolling, more muttering, though at least this time they were on the same
page: muttering about me.
Inspiration struck today at ... The Hudson Café, 628 Hudson Street
This is one of my favourite spots in the neighbourhood - just round the corner from our apartment.
Pros: great coffee and salads, pretty and creative environment, village feel.
Cons: tables are very small, too many young waitresses conducting their love lives while you're trying to write.
