MEETING THE RADLERS
Tristan, 17
a teenager with a conscience and his granddad's bike keys
does stage acting
moral vegetarian who is anti palm-oil
runs the smoothie-bar at Poppy's gym 'Pop In'
Fidel
a bird who's seen it all, and has a thing or two to say
plaque in his cage says "will sing for peanuts"
Pete, 66
Tristan's granddad
ex roadie in dire straits, living under his son's roof
favourite hang-out: Heinz' Catch Up Lounge
his usual: the 'Coffee Special' (comes with one of Sasha's 'biscuits')
Ludwig, 46
Tristan's dad
your run-of-the-mill bank clerk - with a life away from home
likes Beethoven and fishing
has a caravan by the river
loves dancing and speaks Spanish
Maryanne, 47
Tristan's mum
housewife who likes zumba and dislikes fish
goes to 'pole dance'-classes at Poppy's (wearing a yellow polka dot dress)
Carmen, 16
Tristan's sister
a bubbly girl whose boyfriend always comes out smelling of roses
Dad didn't have Bizet on his mind when he named her.
… and some of their associates
Fwanky, 11
A genius street vendor with a couple of sweet teeth missing
Slogan: "Chocolate Makes the World Go Round"
sells from a vendor's tray
Heinz (Tiler), 57
Pete's roadie mate
at Heinz' Catch Up Lounge they don't play salsa - and there are more roses than guns
Ysabelle, 42
Maryanne's sister
Heinz' girlfriend
she makes a mean tomato sauce but means no harm
Nikos, 18
Tristan's friend
Carmen's boyfriend
a moral vegetarian, much to the despair of his big fat Greek family
wants to mask the smell of the family restaurant 'Oikos'
Creator of 'Chef Bottled' - slogan: “Come Out Smelling of Roses“
Sasha, 19
Heinz' nephew
Young Urban Professional with an artistic license
Confectioner of hash brownies & aroma graffitrees
Sprayer: 'the Great S'
Poppy, 36
fit and healthy, prepares health food fit for kings (and queens)
Dance instructor & Zumba coach
Owner of Gym 'Pop In'
Fedora, 21
a young woman with bi-focal specs who believes in bifurcated reality
Librarian
also a member of the Drama Group
wears a button: `Discworld - all you'll ever need to read´
Founder-member of UFSTP*
* United Fans of Sir Terry Pratchett
FIRST WORDS
Uunnhmmpfffh
***
HOT CAKES
I manage to half open one eye.
The other one is scrunched up by my cheek being pushed upwards by my hand.
The pillow underneath my mouth is full of slobber.
Gee, must've fallen asleep on my belly again.
I roll over on my side, onto the dry bit, and my other eye also pops open.
I wipe my chin with the back of my freed hand. It rasps, I contentedly take note.
There.
That sound again.
A little bit like an electric guitar.
Then a screeching voice.
"Ziggy played guitaaar".
Abrupt silence. Rustling.
Caramba, it's Fidel.
Granddad's forgotten to cover his cage. Again.
The rotten bird has Bowie down to a t.
I personally prefer the Bauhaus version, but that birdie is damn obstinate.
At 6 eleven in the morning, I'm not too crazy about either version, to be honest.
Bloody bird.
I stagger over to granddad's room, hand Fidel a peanut in the dark, and set off to the bathroom, to his hoarse commentary of "just watch me now".
At least it's not occupied at this time of day - dad has most probably already cycled off with his fishing rod and his discarded 32 ounces potato salad tub, mum's out of it anyway, and Carmen is dead to the world until midday.
And by the looks of it, granddad's not even home from the concert yet, his bed is untouched.
Aargh, damn are these tiles cold.
The water comes out of the tap near frozen. Why tap? It's not tapping, is it? It's dripping, so it should be called a drip.
I stare myself in the face for a while.
It's not getting better. On the contrary, I notice that one of my eyelids droops lower than the other one. Shit.
There's just one thing for it.
I shuffle to the far side of the house.
In the kitchen, the sun is just coming up.
I seriously contemplate looking for my sun glasses.
Light before coffee, that's a no no.
I'm getting together the stuff needed for coffee making, when there is a rumbling sound outside, and then a horrible screeching noise.
Then a voice says "knock, knock".
"Just come in, granddad."
"Woah, in a mood today?"
"Nope, it's just that the coffee is still too hot to drink. Your Suzi is making a racket like there is a storm brewing, just saying".
"And the garage gate screeches like it's getting paid for it", granddad deflects and sits down.
"Got some coffee left over?"
I pour him his "best granddad" mug and slide it over to him.
He takes a sip, nods, and says: "Remember it's you who needs to make the coffee the day you find me dead in my bed - it might just resurrect me. Your mother's coffee is worse than the one they serve at the petrol station...
Anyway, where have you been?"
"In bed. And you?"
At the 'Catch up'. Heinz got the Blues and wanted to go home."
Granddad rummages in the depths of his jacket pocket.
"Do you know Fwanky? The tot with the vending tray?"
"Yes, he sets up shop at the school sometimes, why?"
"His business is doing well. He was sold out after the gig. I managed to grab the last box of machorons. I really wanted to get a fruitcake, just the thing for your mother and your sister, but as it is, it's us machos who will have breakfast together instead."
He grins and slides a small box along the kitchen table.
Uuuh yesss. This makes getting up worthwhile.
These things are super yummie.
"Who makes them?"
"I think his gran. They used to have a café by the park, when his mother was still alive. After a while they couldn't afford the rent any longer, so now she's doing the baking at home, and he sells the merchandise on the street. Since the little shit¨s come up with these names, the stuff has been selling like hotcakes."
"What names would that be?"
"Like, Suck-my-Lolly, or Bollocks-Praliné, shit like that. You have to take someone a little prezzie, for the in-laws, right, and they're over the moon with the lovely doughnuts, and have no idea that they're being insulted as nincomhoops.
I'm laughing crumbs. "Wicked."
Fruitcake for Carmen. A shame there wasn't any.
"I'm going to have a kip," says granddad, "got anything planned?"
"Poppy needs me at the studio later, it's Hula-Zumba Day, and the froop- yourself smoothies sell really well."
Granddad pulls a face and puts his mug in the half-full dish washer.
"Not even with a generous measure of vodka."
I laugh. "The bird is having a Ziggy Day, by the way."
"Blimey", grumbles granddad and hangs up his jacket in the hallway.
"See you later."
"Ciao granddad, sleep well."
From his room a delighted "Give us a nut" can be heard.
Silence descends.
I manage to half open one eye.
The other one is scrunched up by my cheek being pushed upwards by my hand.
The pillow underneath my mouth is full of slobber.
Gee, must've fallen asleep on my belly again.
I roll over on my side, onto the dry bit, and my other eye also pops open.
I wipe my chin with the back of my freed hand. It rasps, I contentedly take note.
There.
That sound again.
A little bit like an electric guitar.
Then a screeching voice.
"Ziggy played guitaaar".
Abrupt silence. Rustling.
Caramba, it's Fidel.
Granddad's forgotten to cover his cage. Again.
The rotten bird has Bowie down to a t.
I personally prefer the Bauhaus version, but that birdie is damn obstinate.
At 6 eleven in the morning, I'm not too crazy about either version, to be honest.
Bloody bird.
I stagger over to granddad's room, hand Fidel a peanut in the dark, and set off to the bathroom, to his hoarse commentary of "just watch me now".
At least it's not occupied at this time of day - dad has most probably already cycled off with his fishing rod and his discarded 32 ounces potato salad tub, mum's out of it anyway, and Carmen is dead to the world until midday.
And by the looks of it, granddad's not even home from the concert yet, his bed is untouched.
Aargh, damn are these tiles cold.
The water comes out of the tap near frozen. Why tap? It's not tapping, is it? It's dripping, so it should be called a drip.
I stare myself in the face for a while.
It's not getting better. On the contrary, I notice that one of my eyelids droops lower than the other one. Shit.
There's just one thing for it.
I shuffle to the far side of the house.
In the kitchen, the sun is just coming up.
I seriously contemplate looking for my sun glasses.
Light before coffee, that's a no no.
I'm getting together the stuff needed for coffee making, when there is a rumbling sound outside, and then a horrible screeching noise.
Then a voice says "knock, knock".
"Just come in, granddad."
"Woah, in a mood today?"
"Nope, it's just that the coffee is still too hot to drink. Your Suzi is making a racket like there is a storm brewing, just saying".
"And the garage gate screeches like it's getting paid for it", granddad deflects and sits down.
"Got some coffee left over?"
I pour him his "best granddad" mug and slide it over to him.
He takes a sip, nods, and says: "Remember it's you who needs to make the coffee the day you find me dead in my bed - it might just resurrect me. Your mother's coffee is worse than the one they serve at the petrol station...
Anyway, where have you been?"
"In bed. And you?"
At the 'Catch up'. Heinz got the Blues and wanted to go home."
Granddad rummages in the depths of his jacket pocket.
"Do you know Fwanky? The tot with the vending tray?"
"Yes, he sets up shop at the school sometimes, why?"
"His business is doing well. He was sold out after the gig. I managed to grab the last box of machorons. I really wanted to get a fruitcake, just the thing for your mother and your sister, but as it is, it's us machos who will have breakfast together instead."
He grins and slides a small box along the kitchen table.
Uuuh yesss. This makes getting up worthwhile.
These things are super yummie.
"Who makes them?"
"I think his gran. They used to have a café by the park, when his mother was still alive. After a while they couldn't afford the rent any longer, so now she's doing the baking at home, and he sells the merchandise on the street. Since the little shit¨s come up with these names, the stuff has been selling like hotcakes."
"What names would that be?"
"Like, Suck-my-Lolly, or Bollocks-Praliné, shit like that. You have to take someone a little prezzie, for the in-laws, right, and they're over the moon with the lovely doughnuts, and have no idea that they're being insulted as nincomhoops.
I'm laughing crumbs. "Wicked."
Fruitcake for Carmen. A shame there wasn't any.
"I'm going to have a kip," says granddad, "got anything planned?"
"Poppy needs me at the studio later, it's Hula-Zumba Day, and the froop- yourself smoothies sell really well."
Granddad pulls a face and puts his mug in the half-full dish washer.
"Not even with a generous measure of vodka."
I laugh. "The bird is having a Ziggy Day, by the way."
"Blimey", grumbles granddad and hangs up his jacket in the hallway.
"See you later."
"Ciao granddad, sleep well."
From his room a delighted "Give us a nut" can be heard.
Silence descends.
***
MUSINGS
Lost in thought, I'm picking crumbs off the table top painted a lovely mint, one by one, with the tip of my index finger, and transport them back into the empty machorons box, pondering one of the fundamental questions of life.
Is ignorance a life style that one should take into consideration?
Let's take mum: chances are, at 47, she might now know marginally even less than on the day she was born, but she's not missing anything.
She's not overly happy, but she's not unhappy, she's just oblivious of a lot of things that would cast her into doubt or sadness - what I'm getting at is this: let's just say dad's okay for her, and to spend her life with him (and us, and granddad, and Fidel), isn't hard.
And let's just say that, if she had turned her head to the right while queuing for the supermarket till at 17:43 yesterday, exactly twenty years ago, and had lifted her gaze, then hers would have crossed with the gaze of the geezer queuing for the other till, and fireworks would have gone off right before their eyes, booms and bangs included.
Instead of getting into her little red car with the 'Happy Camper' bumper-sticker in the parking lot, she would have gotten into his matte black pick-up with him and they would have driven off into the sunset to the sound of The Pretenders.
She would actually have found the one and only, the one who would have made all her strings resonate.
Instead, slowly inching forward in the queue for the supermarket till, with her gaze firmly fixed on the back of the client in front of her, she had, between 17:42 and 17:44, thought about whether it would be smarter to buy full-cream milk instead of skimmed, since you clearly must get more for your money, at no extra cost.
She didn't realise that she had just foregone something great and exceptional, she doesn't even realise that the chance of ever meeting your grand prize (from the whole of the world's population, two must coincide in one of the zillion places at the same time, and it must add up to 100% for both of them) is only marginal.
But in her ignorance she doesn't really miss anything...
Mum's Motto: What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over.
Mum's probably the lukewarm type, anyway.
And then there are the cases where the person is well aware, but circumstances aren't in favour - is this person really better off? Or potentially unhappier?
Staring into the dregs of my coffee, I ask myself if the answer might be found in the coffee grounds.
I will question aunt Ysabelle on the matter, mum's younger sister, who is running on a higher temperature.
Lost in thought, I'm picking crumbs off the table top painted a lovely mint, one by one, with the tip of my index finger, and transport them back into the empty machorons box, pondering one of the fundamental questions of life.
Is ignorance a life style that one should take into consideration?
Let's take mum: chances are, at 47, she might now know marginally even less than on the day she was born, but she's not missing anything.
She's not overly happy, but she's not unhappy, she's just oblivious of a lot of things that would cast her into doubt or sadness - what I'm getting at is this: let's just say dad's okay for her, and to spend her life with him (and us, and granddad, and Fidel), isn't hard.
And let's just say that, if she had turned her head to the right while queuing for the supermarket till at 17:43 yesterday, exactly twenty years ago, and had lifted her gaze, then hers would have crossed with the gaze of the geezer queuing for the other till, and fireworks would have gone off right before their eyes, booms and bangs included.
Instead of getting into her little red car with the 'Happy Camper' bumper-sticker in the parking lot, she would have gotten into his matte black pick-up with him and they would have driven off into the sunset to the sound of The Pretenders.
She would actually have found the one and only, the one who would have made all her strings resonate.
Instead, slowly inching forward in the queue for the supermarket till, with her gaze firmly fixed on the back of the client in front of her, she had, between 17:42 and 17:44, thought about whether it would be smarter to buy full-cream milk instead of skimmed, since you clearly must get more for your money, at no extra cost.
She didn't realise that she had just foregone something great and exceptional, she doesn't even realise that the chance of ever meeting your grand prize (from the whole of the world's population, two must coincide in one of the zillion places at the same time, and it must add up to 100% for both of them) is only marginal.
But in her ignorance she doesn't really miss anything...
Mum's Motto: What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over.
Mum's probably the lukewarm type, anyway.
And then there are the cases where the person is well aware, but circumstances aren't in favour - is this person really better off? Or potentially unhappier?
Staring into the dregs of my coffee, I ask myself if the answer might be found in the coffee grounds.
I will question aunt Ysabelle on the matter, mum's younger sister, who is running on a higher temperature.
***
TO BE (HAPPY) OR NOT TO BE
As soon as aunt Ysabelle - still in her 'Dance in Colour' Zumba-outfit - has sucked up pretty well half of her hot pink froop-yourself special (with iced pink grapefruit and oats) through the straw in just under 5 seconds, and has contentedly leaned back, I dare pose the question.
She pokes the straw around in the remains of her smoothie while she is processing her answer, frozen-faced, and I'm beginning to regret having started this, when she says: "For 20 years, I had been believing that it could still have a happy ending, he would really turn up at my door one day, and that I would once more experience this feeling of floating above the door step, this overwhelming feeling of happiness with the welcome kiss, just like back then, when he would stop by on his way to work."
She pauses, and fixes her glassy gaze on the fruit and vegetable-wallpaper behind me as if the effect of a prescription drug was beginning to wear off, and then announces in mocking tones:
"Instead, I receive a pathetic little letter, worded as if it was an obituary, informing me how well his 'children' - by then even the youngest was 26 years old - had handled the fact that he had fallen in love again just before his divorce hearing and had tied the knot practically straight after."
She pauses again, and I hectically rub away a condensation stain on the stainless-steel surface of my high-performance blender until she continues.
"What wasn't mentioned in the letter was that he likely hadn't kept his promise because he was too cowardly to risk having to explain himself after all this time. It would have cast a bad light on him - in the eyes of his ex-wife, who might not have believed him that we really had not seen each other again, and in the eyes of his children, who would have put one and one together after all.
This was sobering enough for me to manage to get over it pretty well, and I hadn't been so sentimental back then as to hit pause, so I haven't missed anything."
She taps the bottom of her glass with her straw a couple of times, and then slurps up the remaining juice as if she was on the verge of dying of thirst, before continuing: 'But I am, without a doubt, unhappier now than I would have been if I had kept my hands off it then. I nevertheless wouldn't want to delete it, it's practically a privilege.'
She looks me in the eye, and laughs.
I feel a bit rotten, nevertheless.
'What about yourself, Tristan? Are you dangling from a hook, or are you the angler?' - she won't let me get away that easily.
'I leave the angling to dad.'
She harrumphes, amused.
'I go with the flow.'
Poppy - sporting a rainbow-coloured headband today - cuts in: 'Are you philosophising again?' She clears the other hula-gymnasts' glasses from the counter and places them in front of me.
My salvation.
Belle takes her sports bag and, upon leaving, says under her breath 'What I miss the most' - she audibly gasps and her voice becomes shaky - 'is our combined scents'.
I momentarily feel as if someone had smashed me against a concrete wall in the underground car park.
I can't really counter this, at seventeen it's mostly still a matter of phantasizing, but I wasn't prepared for this revelation. Things life has in store for me still!
I'm still was washing and polishing glasses as if the 'Pop In' had an inspection pending, when Nikos turns up.
As soon as aunt Ysabelle - still in her 'Dance in Colour' Zumba-outfit - has sucked up pretty well half of her hot pink froop-yourself special (with iced pink grapefruit and oats) through the straw in just under 5 seconds, and has contentedly leaned back, I dare pose the question.
She pokes the straw around in the remains of her smoothie while she is processing her answer, frozen-faced, and I'm beginning to regret having started this, when she says: "For 20 years, I had been believing that it could still have a happy ending, he would really turn up at my door one day, and that I would once more experience this feeling of floating above the door step, this overwhelming feeling of happiness with the welcome kiss, just like back then, when he would stop by on his way to work."
She pauses, and fixes her glassy gaze on the fruit and vegetable-wallpaper behind me as if the effect of a prescription drug was beginning to wear off, and then announces in mocking tones:
"Instead, I receive a pathetic little letter, worded as if it was an obituary, informing me how well his 'children' - by then even the youngest was 26 years old - had handled the fact that he had fallen in love again just before his divorce hearing and had tied the knot practically straight after."
She pauses again, and I hectically rub away a condensation stain on the stainless-steel surface of my high-performance blender until she continues.
"What wasn't mentioned in the letter was that he likely hadn't kept his promise because he was too cowardly to risk having to explain himself after all this time. It would have cast a bad light on him - in the eyes of his ex-wife, who might not have believed him that we really had not seen each other again, and in the eyes of his children, who would have put one and one together after all.
This was sobering enough for me to manage to get over it pretty well, and I hadn't been so sentimental back then as to hit pause, so I haven't missed anything."
She taps the bottom of her glass with her straw a couple of times, and then slurps up the remaining juice as if she was on the verge of dying of thirst, before continuing: 'But I am, without a doubt, unhappier now than I would have been if I had kept my hands off it then. I nevertheless wouldn't want to delete it, it's practically a privilege.'
She looks me in the eye, and laughs.
I feel a bit rotten, nevertheless.
'What about yourself, Tristan? Are you dangling from a hook, or are you the angler?' - she won't let me get away that easily.
'I leave the angling to dad.'
She harrumphes, amused.
'I go with the flow.'
Poppy - sporting a rainbow-coloured headband today - cuts in: 'Are you philosophising again?' She clears the other hula-gymnasts' glasses from the counter and places them in front of me.
My salvation.
Belle takes her sports bag and, upon leaving, says under her breath 'What I miss the most' - she audibly gasps and her voice becomes shaky - 'is our combined scents'.
I momentarily feel as if someone had smashed me against a concrete wall in the underground car park.
I can't really counter this, at seventeen it's mostly still a matter of phantasizing, but I wasn't prepared for this revelation. Things life has in store for me still!
I'm still was washing and polishing glasses as if the 'Pop In' had an inspection pending, when Nikos turns up.
***
THE PERFECT EXCUSE
"Hey, bro, 's up?"
I pour us two sparkling glasses of my green power-smoothie (with fresh spinach - Popeye inspired - and cucumber), and join him on the other side of the counter.
He presents me with a white card, which reads 'Chef bottled'.
"You're not serious, are you?"
"Try it." "How?"
I turn the card every which way.
"Just rub its back against your wrist."
Fate isn't kind to me to today. I hesitantly do as he says.
"And now sniff it. Not the card, dude, your wrist."
It smells surprisingly nice. With a slight note of Fairy, but that's probably due to my dishpan hands. I cautiously sniff the card anyhow: I have a vision of a chocolate gateau, with a candied-walnut rim and a maple-syrup topping, and - it takes me a while - rose petals? "Wow, that smells delicious."
"I told you. It's going to be a success. Sasha needs to work on the packaging, and then we can go into production. I'm counting on your smoothie-ladies as clients."
"Got an idea. If you could reproduce the smell of sex, that would sell!"
"Forget it", Nikos stops me, "Fedora recommended that book to me, 'Perfume'. I almost lost my appetite."
"You needn't throttle virgins, there must be another way. Just imagine how attractive everyone would become, and two-timers would have the perfect excuse."
"It's been tried with musk, it's just not a human attractant. With us, it's more a question of an altered pH-value, and pheromones per se are odourless. And the perfume would need to be compatible with every intrinsic scent, otherwise it can get unpleasant. And what do I call it? Perfect Excuse?"
He grins crookedly.
"It was just a thought", I defend myself.
"I had the same thought, I just don't know how."
He raises his hands and pulls a face.
This is when the door ominously opens.
"Hey, bro, 's up?"
I pour us two sparkling glasses of my green power-smoothie (with fresh spinach - Popeye inspired - and cucumber), and join him on the other side of the counter.
He presents me with a white card, which reads 'Chef bottled'.
"You're not serious, are you?"
"Try it." "How?"
I turn the card every which way.
"Just rub its back against your wrist."
Fate isn't kind to me to today. I hesitantly do as he says.
"And now sniff it. Not the card, dude, your wrist."
It smells surprisingly nice. With a slight note of Fairy, but that's probably due to my dishpan hands. I cautiously sniff the card anyhow: I have a vision of a chocolate gateau, with a candied-walnut rim and a maple-syrup topping, and - it takes me a while - rose petals? "Wow, that smells delicious."
"I told you. It's going to be a success. Sasha needs to work on the packaging, and then we can go into production. I'm counting on your smoothie-ladies as clients."
"Got an idea. If you could reproduce the smell of sex, that would sell!"
"Forget it", Nikos stops me, "Fedora recommended that book to me, 'Perfume'. I almost lost my appetite."
"You needn't throttle virgins, there must be another way. Just imagine how attractive everyone would become, and two-timers would have the perfect excuse."
"It's been tried with musk, it's just not a human attractant. With us, it's more a question of an altered pH-value, and pheromones per se are odourless. And the perfume would need to be compatible with every intrinsic scent, otherwise it can get unpleasant. And what do I call it? Perfect Excuse?"
He grins crookedly.
"It was just a thought", I defend myself.
"I had the same thought, I just don't know how."
He raises his hands and pulls a face.
This is when the door ominously opens.
***
SOMETHING´S COOKING
"Might as well keep your hands raised", the smaller of the two policemen says to Nikos, and they push between us at the bar.
One grabs Nikos' smoothie, and the other, the card. "Let's see what we have here." Both sniff their haul. "Hmm."
We look at each other, alarmed. I have to quickly look away, as the policeman next to Nikos sticks out his tongue and licks the card. The other one fearlessly slurps up Nikos' smoothie through the straw.
"What's the plan?", Nikos asks.
"We know something's cooking - one of these days we'll catch you ", says Licker.
"Wrong address, I'd say", says Nikos and winks at me.
Slurper is giving us the 'Watching you'-gesture with his index and middle fingers and passes the smoothie glass to me. They walk out at a brisk pace.
Poppy peeks out from behind the glass front of the yoga room. "What the heck was this spectacle about?" she asks no one in particular from the door.
We look at each other and the adrenaline erupts fom us. Squealing and crying with laughter we hold on to the bar.
Nikos proffers Poppy the card and says "Would you like to" - he's trembling with laughter - "lick?"
I double up, almost hitting my nose on the smoothy glass, and it takes me half a minute to get out my "just imagine" amidst sniffles and gurgles - "just imagine", and once again laughter has me in its grip, "I had sprinkled it with toasted hempseed."
Nikos squeals. "We would have walked out of here in cuffs."
Poppy shakes her head and taps her temple. "Fruitcakes."
"Might as well keep your hands raised", the smaller of the two policemen says to Nikos, and they push between us at the bar.
One grabs Nikos' smoothie, and the other, the card. "Let's see what we have here." Both sniff their haul. "Hmm."
We look at each other, alarmed. I have to quickly look away, as the policeman next to Nikos sticks out his tongue and licks the card. The other one fearlessly slurps up Nikos' smoothie through the straw.
"What's the plan?", Nikos asks.
"We know something's cooking - one of these days we'll catch you ", says Licker.
"Wrong address, I'd say", says Nikos and winks at me.
Slurper is giving us the 'Watching you'-gesture with his index and middle fingers and passes the smoothie glass to me. They walk out at a brisk pace.
Poppy peeks out from behind the glass front of the yoga room. "What the heck was this spectacle about?" she asks no one in particular from the door.
We look at each other and the adrenaline erupts fom us. Squealing and crying with laughter we hold on to the bar.
Nikos proffers Poppy the card and says "Would you like to" - he's trembling with laughter - "lick?"
I double up, almost hitting my nose on the smoothy glass, and it takes me half a minute to get out my "just imagine" amidst sniffles and gurgles - "just imagine", and once again laughter has me in its grip, "I had sprinkled it with toasted hempseed."
Nikos squeals. "We would have walked out of here in cuffs."
Poppy shakes her head and taps her temple. "Fruitcakes."
