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by Simon Bridgestock

“I come from a musical family you know, and I thought I might take the opportunity to have a look around if you don’t mind.”
To Molarkey’s ears the words emerged in an almost intolerable slowness. Their dull cadence inflicted numerous flesh wounds to his equilibrium.

“If you think it’ll do you any good then go ahead,” he said flicking his ash into the orange peel.
The old man was offensively khaki and the uniform of moderation hung off his salami limbs with ghoulish impudence. He slowly wandered around the various stalls looking at every object with equal seriousness.
Just killing time, thought Molarkey who then snorted involuntarily. This made the old man look at him, which hurt Molarkey’s pride considerably.
“Do you enjoy your work?” said the old man innocently enough to suggest to Molarkey that he was rooting around for something substantial.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking.”
The old man picked up a felt eggcup, which he eyed suspiciously.
“It’s decorative,” replied Molarkey.
“What, your job or this egg cup?” said the old man.


Image by Simon Bridgestock

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