Tights
Sunday dinner at the in-laws’ house. The heat was unbearable, the newspaper said that it was hotter in the West Midlands than it is in Rio, Brazil.
My wife helped her mother in the kitchen while I sank into the sticky leather sofa, slipping between the cushions, disappearing into a land of lost coins and supermarket receipts. A ball of fluff told me it was bored here, and why don’t we slip out and go for an adventure “There’s a rumour about a doorway to a land of failed writers at the back of Waterstones, let’s go there and…”
My wife called me in. I peeled myself out of the sofa and walked into the kitchen where my wife handed me a green dinner tray. Her mother gave me a plate with lamb, potatoes and peas.
The dinner trays my mother-in-law uses are shiny green and slippery. When I plunge my fork into the meat and attempt to cut it the plate spins and slides around the tray like a board game for hyperactive surgeons.
“Can I put a newspaper under my plate, please?” I asked. “My plate keeps sliding all over the place.” My mother-in-law nodded.
“There’s going to be a new Robin Hood film,' my mother-in-law said. “And I read that the actor playing Robin Hood refused to wear tights, saying it wasn’t manly! He said Robin Hood wasn’t manly!” She shook her head and a pea fell out of her mouth and rolled between her cleavage. I shuddered.
My wife looked as if she wanted to add something to the conversation but her mouth was full of pretend cauliflower.
* Regular IS&T contributor Bobby Parker says this story may appear in his new collection Digging for Toys, which should be published next year.
