Yesterday (chilly, wasn’t it; the cold surprising after what seems weeks of storms and mild temperatures) I stepped into Moonlife–a local shop for those seeking longer or different lives–and was confronted by A, a pretty, red-haired, 30 something American woman, who not only works in Moonlife, but teaches arcane forms of exercise to a simliar clientele (like me). In fact the last time we had met, she was my teacher, I her student.
‘Hello.’ I said, smilingly pleased to see her (the flattery of talking to a young attractive woman) ‘you’re in another of your many roles today.’
I could sense the life in her bouncing about seeking expression in humour and words.
She found a word: stocking.
‘I’m wearing my stocking cap today,’ pointing to the imaginary cap on her head and the array of shelves. ‘Not,’ she added, ‘stockings . . . ‘ her face lighting up with mischievious humour.
But before I could find a response to this unexpectedly flirtatious punning, another customer barged in demanding to know where some obscure culinary sauce was kept.
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