Friday, January 23, 2009

Drear, If Not Quite Drudge

Sitting upstairs in the Swan Centre, I look dolefully at the plate of disappointment laid out before me. More of a specimen than a spread. The picture had promised so much, but this is what solitary lunches are made of. Rubbery eggs.

The woman sat behind me is trying to coerce her child into conversation, encouraging her hoots. When the awkward little one constructs a clumsy semblance of a sentence, they both repeat it over. And over. Practice. She's a cute kid, I think. I hope her classmates understand.

There's an elderly lady sat opposite. Coat, scarf, hat; she's struggling with a broadsheet. I'd struggle to read the Independent myself. When she finally folds the creases, it's on to a full-page ad for a furniture shop. I can taste her disappointment in my soggy toast.

Two Americans trail up the spiral stairs, marvelling at the clock that nobody else has so much as noticed. I marvel at them; their temerity. Rathmines feels as far from the beaten tourist track as Timbuktu. "It's a funky little mall" says one.

Quite.

Sometimes lunch out isn't the treat I imagine it to be. I shrug on my coat and leave my wrinkle-skinned tea to settle.