Teashop Shorts on a Sunny Sunday

Just a few blips on the radar today. I decided to leave the teashop until I'd done my rounds of the town first. On one street corner I noticed two people talking. Nothing unusual there. In fact that seems to be the primary pastime of most people in our post-industrial, leasure driven age. If we could export talking or take shares out in it, our economic woes would be over. But anyway, I went to the autobank and did some shopping, passed the talkers on the way back, dropped some books off at the library and chose some more, and finally visited a couple of charity shops to view the B&M bling, Chinese clothes and those items which were once described as having no functional or asthetic worth. The two people were still talking as I entered the teashop. Visibly aged, but still talking.

The usual aroma of coffee, cheese and fry ups assaulted my nostrils, and I noted that an old skiffle group were playing on the radio. I was just about to sing along with Lonny Donegan, when I realised the shaker and washboard driven beat was actually being delivered by one of the customers. He was rhythmically adding the contents of a large salt cellar onto the gargantuan, feast in front of him. Arteries screamed.

Another guy ordered bacon, fried eggs, black pudding, beans and tomatoes, but no toast. 

"No toast?" said the mystified waitress.

"No thanks. I'm on a diet"

When I left half an hour later, the talking couple were still there, soaked by rain, buffeted by wind and now fried by the midday sun. But then I had a Eureka moment.

All things have a function, however obscure, and they were clearly substituting for the broken town clock by being a human sundial. 

Bravo!