Professional Documents
Culture Documents
A: Paddington B: Rupert
C: Aloysius D: Baloo
it. But that’s just how it feels, right now, so early in the
century.
“Let’s see, let’s see,” we shout, inspecting our handi-
work. We piss-take Sanjay’s half-shut eyes. Megan secretly
rues her roundness and tastes a deep pang of dissatisfac-
tion, suffering in silence. Minor characters, negotiating
their self-loathing.
“Gross. Take another,” demands Ella.
Now, we all know that people judge ensemble pieces
entirely on their own performance, so it seems doubly
ridiculous for Ella to complain when she is obviously the
stunner of the cast. Nevertheless, she strolls over to a group
of lads, tossing her wavy blonde hair over a bare shoulder
(the hair and neck you yearn to touch and nuzzle), and asks
one of them to do the honors.
“Sure.”
Ella is an effortless ingratiator. Any one of these fellas
would’ve clambered to push her button, simplified and sof-
tened by the measured attention. I remember my own ini-
tial encounter. It was the first night of university, a cocktail
event in college, when the real world was but a drowning
murmur far off in the distance. Lecherous second-years
sharked about, scanning the fresh talent, mixing drips of
Coke and lemonade into plastic storage boxes filled with
cheap vodka and Bacardi. Ella and I waded our separate
ways through the frantic mob of small-talkers (Hey what’s
your name where you from what you studying what’s your
name again?) to scoop our cups in the toxic vats. She
caught my eye.
“This stuff tastes of arse,” I said.
“Mine’s not that good.”
I laughed. I was terrified.
“Here, try some,” she said.
it open, and takes a thirsty glug. “What can I say?” Its voice
is a perfect imitation of mine. “Helps us sleep though,
doesn’t it?” His large head, transposed onto that toddler
body, impractically fills the pram. Facially he’s identical,
though his hair seems a little thinner than mine and I can
make out some specks of premature gray. “What now? Is
it the hair? Well, you have put us through a lot. The ques-
tion is: do you think you’ve been provident in peril?”
“I guess we’re going to find out, aren’t we?”
The babe lets out a small burp. From the mouths of.
“Excuse us. Well, let’s just hope for some success, eh?”
I don’t know what to say.
“Are you thinking about Lucy again?”
Startled surprised by the noise of the sound of her name
coming from the tiny little thing, I hit and knock the scald-
ing hot Americano all over me, myself, and I, but feel no
hurt pain. Curiouser and curiouser.
“Careful!” shouts the babe, steam effervescing from his
ears and nostrils in cartoon frenzy. “That hurts like hell!”
“Shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t get any on you, did I?”
The babe ignores my question, too busy writhing about.
And then he takes another swig.
“You make me feel like a sinner,” I find myself crying.
“Is all of this justified?”
The babe simply stares.
“Why are you hogging my attention so?”
The babe looks at me, deadpan, knowing eyes. “Dreams,
innit.”
I start to panic; the entire café has gone silent and is
watching. Nervously I begin packing my things away and
without acknowledging the babe I wander off into the
shop, searching for escape. The customers switch back on
and continue with their routines. I avoid looking behind as