I Google for Dickheads

As I wait in the car at the lights there’s a woman in the Old Fish Shop Café. She has a baby sitting on her lap and she’s flicking through photos and smiling. The boys in the car in front must be watching too and they wave to her. She lifts her hand over the top of the baby’s head and smiles at them before the lights change. We edge forward around the corner, intimidating the pedestrians into hot-footing it.

They’re redeveloping my car park, the one that I drive through (yes, Jo, through which I drive) each day to thwart the NO LEFT TURN on the way home. It puts me off kilter. I have a list for focus: fish, RID, flowers, Pickle.

By the time I’ve put the garbage out they’re here and there’s no time to walk the dog (sorry, Noonie – but he did get to attend a dinner party). We sit in the concrete courtyard drinking sparkling red and talking about celebrities, the Oscars, the landlord, language and highlights of the receptionist’s interaction with the general public that day.

His job, he says, could be summed up as: I Google for Dickheads because even when questions are unrelated to his organisation, it’s easier just to Google for answers.

At the end of the evening we don hats from the rack in the hallway and the receptionist takes photos of us. He’s skilled at group self portraits and with his long arms he holds the camera way above our heads so that no double chins are captured.