A cacophony of clanging noises, exhaultant whoops, little people darting between chairs, jugglers clutching plates and pepper grinders, the crowd a sea of buzzing faces, both hungry and sated, gelato soaked. Crusty bread and garlic permeate the air and somewhere in the recesses of my mind I lodge the warm and herbaceous song of Balmain.
Frank is scribbling with a green crayon on the sheet of paper lining lining one of our tables. He draws a nude lady.
"Sex appeal!" he announces. "If you don't have sex appeal, no one cares what you have to say."
"Arguably, dad, that is untrue" says Pip.
"It is true. The other thing is, logic!"
I have spooned salt in half the empty glasses, with cunning stealth, as only a small person can do.
Frank pours everyone water. Margaret and mum are perusing the menu, flinging back and forth possibilities with the capacity and logistical pragmatism of a friendly militia. Patrick and Mady draw noughts and crosses, play some game to do with vocabulary. I draw stars in pink.
"Do we have to eat with Frank's nude lady here?" I say laughing. I am at the age where I am utterly amused by skulls and crossbones, illustrations of scary men in jail, rudimentry depictions of genitalia crafted by Anthony Luck, words scrawled on toilet walls. They are so unlike ballet class.
Pip takes a big mouthful of water and sprays it out over her shoulder.
"Yuck!" she says. "They put salt in the water!!"
I laugh so hard I push back on my chair to grasp some breath and the chair crashes back into the table behind us. I cling to the table cloth and take out a few pieces of cutlery and a glass of saline solution as I go down, which only makes me laugh harder.
The lady I crash into fumbles and flummoxes, scared she has injured a child. She does some strange jig.
Pip shakes her head. "Why would they put salt in the water? Gross!"
