Teashop Times

Nothing explosive at the teashop this week, but a few whimsical incidents, nonetheless.

On taking a window seat one day I observed a perfectly ordinary scruffy bloke ambling down the street, who then unexpectedly disappeared in a large cloud of smoke. Somewhat bemused, I found myself wondering whether this was my first sighting of a genie, or a fascinating example of spontaneous combustion.

Of course, it was just a case of vaping.

Inside the teashop, two ladies nicely demonstrated the transitional nature of our post-Covid society. Although returning to the old standby of holiday 'Top Trumps' (one was booked for Canada, the other destined for a month long cruise), this competition was cleverly integrated with residual health obsession. One of them needed a knee injection, while the other trumped this with both knee and shoulder treatments. A full recitation of doctors' prescriptions and vaccinations followed, and I was left wondering if they were actually fit enough to leave the room, let alone circumnavigating the globe.

But hey, life's full of strange contradictions.

It wasn't long before another pair of ladies came in (I was beginning to feel like a eunuch in a geriatric brothel). One had an accent which wavered weirdly between home counties posh and southern United States. She claimed to be an American, but I was reminded of an acquaintance in the 1970's who was known as 'American Pat'. He turned out to have been born and bred in Wigan.

There was somebody else at that time who always drawled away like a character in 'The Beverley Hill Billies', even though her friends had grown up with her in Yorkshire.

In the corner, a retired social worker droned on like a robot with limited programming. A slow, endless monotone, like the Buddhist Om.