figments of the real

I was checking the bus timetable at one of the stops in the High Street and this woman sitting there said: 'I get that bus', almost as though she was the only one allowed on it (she wasn't slim). When I explained that I was looking to get a later one she looked miffed, as though I'd rebuffed her.

People are strange.

After a funeral a woman was gathering up the green salad leaves which had served as a bed for the sandwiches. She turned round and said in explanation: 'My son's got iguanas.' I felt like replying: 'Terribly sorry to hear that.'

At work Lorraine was talking about the enlarged testicle of her sister's rabbit. It is having to be castrated. At the time, and it may have been this that inspired the comment, Jeremy Vine was going on about testicular cancer on his radio show. It felt odd to be sitting there in the office with Vine and co. encouraging you to feel your balls. Not that I did.

There is a new cafe in the High Street that does blue ice cream. A label stuck in it identified it as 'Blue Cloud'. It was one of the few ice creams there that bore a label, which seemed odd because that particular name didn't really tell us anything we didn't already know. Still, I asked if I could have it in a milkshake. 'Blue Cloud milkshake', said the woman serving, as though this exotic-sounding confection was perfectly permissible in the scheme of things - ordinary even. Nevertheless, I walked the High Street afterwards chuckling maniacally to myself, thinking: 'I'm drinking a Blue Cloud' and feeling like the inhabitant of some bizarre future world, you know like Avatar, if it wasn't crap.