Teashop Times #?

There was an interesting start to my observations today, as I spied a well dressed, middle-aged lady approaching along the street. Her poodle had a pink coat on which perfectly matched the lady's hair, while her manner was that of a sniffy eighteenth century aristocrat.

But the 'sniffy' bit was entirely operative, as she gave a great heaving snort of mucous which ordinarily would have been associated with congested coal miners or heavy horses on the final acre of a long day. It was incongruous indeed and sounded rather like an industrial vacuum cleaner sucking up two pints of sperm.

This, I supposed, was an example of the social classes merging. Ladies would swallow their product, while gentlemen would launch theirs onto the pavement. A new slant on the conundrum of spit or swallow.

So, I picked my way through the minefield of spent chewing gum, dog turds and fresh saliva gobs to the teashop, where (unfortunately) every table was taken. This automatically redirected me to the nearby hotel, which I used as an emergency standby. It, too, was extremely busy because some residents were on their way to a wedding. A boisterous throng of flushed faces and patent leather shoes surrounded me and the noise only abated when a loud stentorian voice cut through them like a machine gun silencing toddlers with peashooters.

This was presumably the fabled mother-in-law, rolling everything before her like a tsunami, but when I risked a sideways glance it was, in fact, the bride herself. The groom, it appeared, was following her around with the fixed grin of a faithful hound.

"It's a lovely sunny day for it" offered one of the hotel staff.

But when I checked through the window, it had just started to snow.

Whether God or metaphor, the auguries were unmistakable....