Thursday 30 August 2012

MY NEW COFFEE TABLE


The old woman behind the counter of stopped watches and tin trinkets is full of smiles when he comes in the door.  Her granddaughter ignores him.  She wants to know when they can go home.  Not till they’ve taken a little bit more money, dear, is when.  The charity shop smells of steam and age.  He squeezes past the clothes rails and toward the coffee table, its surface kept clear.  Twenty five pounds a taped note says, no negotiating.  Its wooden legs are battered and someone has scribbled all over the underside in blue pen.  The top is dated red and brown swirls edged in still shining chrome.
The woman is thrilled when he says he’ll take it and tells him it should clean up well.  Her granddaughter bounces up and down asking if they can home now.  Not yet they can’t.  He carries it outside rests it against a black bin warped by fire.  Taking out his phone he wonders who he can ring for a lift.


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