We were in a café that used to be an underground car park. There was something about the coldness of the concrete that emphasised the warmth of the decor. It was a lovely place. Shame it was only temporary.
Boudica was going through my wallet. “What’s this?”
“That’s my Tesco Clubcard. I have no idea how many points or whatever I’ve got on it. Sometimes they send me some vouchers. I always forget to use them though.”
She put a corner of it in her mouth and chewed. “Mmmm, this is good! I’m gonna save this for later.”
She’d already scoffed a tenner, a shopping list, a condom, and part of the wallet’s stitching.
Boudica suffers from Pica, a condition which makes her want to eat things that aren’t food. She’s also kind of thoughtless, which means you have to be careful with your belongings.
“DON’T eat that. That’s the only photo I’ve got of…”
“Just put it back, okay? That photo means a lot to me.”
She put the photo back and put my wallet on the table. “I’ve never understood why people keep photos in their wallets. I mean, if a photo means that much to you, why not keep it in a frame at home, rather than carry it around with you and risk damaging or losing it?”
A man at the table next to ours was drawing a picture. I couldn’t see what of, as an old sewing machine was obstructing my view.
Nicholas Parsons was in the café. Almost everyone was looking at him while trying to make it look like they weren’t.
The man drawing the picture read a message on his phone and smiled.
Nicholas Parsons laughed at something he’d read in the paper.
I looked back at Boudica. She was eating the photograph. She looked like a child who knows it’s done something wrong, and finds that fact slightly thrilling.
“Sorry,” she said, insincerely.