Five senses

Hi scribes … I’m very pleased with my self (aside from still grinning over David’s kind remarks about my ‘flash fiction’). I was working today at a fair, and took my ipad with me - never done that before - and managed to write a piece about the five senses while there. Here it is:

Five senses in the Bradner Flower show

So we’re sitting at our rented a table in Bradner Flower Show, held in the local school gym. Home of the Bulldogs I’m informed by a wall graphic of a daunting, snarling bulldog wearing a school cap. We don’t sell flowers. We’re selling my book and Christopher’s paintings. There ARE flowers for sale but also pottery, jewellery, funky clothes, strange carvings, and more art. The walls are covered with school sports paraphernalia - basketball hoops, rope ladders, and climbing frames. I thought it might smell of teenage testosterone but instead it has a lingering odour of disinfectant.

Sales are slow (aren’t they always?) so I’m people watching. The people come in clusters - one minute there’s hardly a soul to see, next minute they’re crowding us out and we worry for the paintings on their stands, especially the glass-covered watercolours. The crowds make me think of a Ruzland painting: the people are short or tall or middling; they’re fat or thin or middling; they’re old or young or middling. Blonde, dark, purple, purple AND blonde in a couple of cases … When the crowds appear, it’s hard to hear in the babble echoing off the high ceiling.

What I CAN hear are the eager utterances as someone looks at a painting: “I have a cousin who paints beautifully … I should bring in his work to show you.” Or looks at my book. “I always meant to write my memoir. Just never got around to it.” I grit my teeth. I smile politely.

My book cover is a bit lurid - its title illustrated with photos of me as a 17-year old belly dancer and Christopher as a 12-year old choirboy. It makes me look like a pedophile. People’s embarrassed gazes slither over the covers to other stands - jewelry, or crochet.

“You’re brave,” grins a passing man without stopping. “Selling that in Mennonite country!”

A large woman - an hourglass of grand proportions with stringy beige coloured hair, picks up a book and flips the cover to peek inside. A line from an old London song springs to mind: ‘If you don’t want the goods don’t muck’em abaht.” Her defensive frown smooths out from her forehead - there are pictures! Photos from the past.

“Did you write this?” She has a trace of an English accent and is a senior - my target market! She emits a subtle scent of lavender. I like lavender. This, perhaps, bodes well. We talk about the contents a bit, I show her the blurbs on the back cover, and those I’ve copied from the Amazon listing.

“I’ll buy it.” She holds a $20 note. Yay! I wasn’t sure if I remembered how to use the card taker, it’s been so long. As she hands over the cash, our fingers touch. Hers are plumply soft and warm, contrasting with my digits chilled from the cold gym. Suddenly the day seems brighter.

I celebrate by sipping my strong coffee laced with cream, so hot it’s almost burning, and taking a big bite of delicious carrot cake, moist and sweet and covered with cream cheese. I’d bought it from the show’s pop-up cafe. Now I’ve covered its cost. I’m happy.