A Plaice in the Rain
"Fish and chips?" "Yes. And a walk along the promenade." It is impossible to eat fried fish and walk and talk all at once, in the rain. "Just chips then? And a plastic fork?" "OK. Chips. And a plastic fork." The forks were wooden memories, then not now, but they, like all utensils, served their purpose for a walk along the promenade in the rain. Why people should choose such an occupation is not necessary to explain, for seaside towns, come hottest summer's day or bitterest January evening, maintain their promenades, like the sitting rooms of pretentious old ladies. A lone, crazy golfer putted a par four in five or more and tilted his cap against the downpour. We waved our forks in his direction though he did not see. He moved on to Henry's upturned bucket, painted red and yellow now, usurped of prior purpose. We moved along, our chips resisted spearing. A promenade is a piece of time, held together by parasols and begoni