On a posthumous dog walk with my family in the rain, a couple are walking towards us. They are middle-aged and well-heeled. She is wearing a bright red coat and a pill-box hat which is black with beige scribbles. He is wearing a tailored jacket and carrying a full-length umbrella with a cane handle. The hair that he has is white and shaved close to his scalp. They look as though they are following a map on an electronic device. I halt their progress to ask my question.
'Well you can't ask me because I don't have one', says the lady. She looks at me through wire-rimmed spectacles. I turn my attention to the gentleman. He is well spoken and gentle. He pronounces his middle name with a long 'a'. I ask if it is Russian. 'Obviously', he replies. But he does not know why his parents chose it.
We wish each other a happy Christmas and my family and I continue to walk the dog that died three-and-a-half years ago across the Common.
No comments:
Post a Comment