Fact is often stranger than fiction


I drive within the 25 mph speed limit.

I watch a willowy woman glide along the sidewalk with yards of flowing hair. Her Afghan hounds sweep along at her side. I chuckle because I love clichés especially ones you can see.

“Ooo looky!” he cries. I look but I do not see.
“What is it lovey?”
“It is dah ball on dah top of dah flag!” I see no flag, no pole and no ball. “Lovely,” I acknowledge because this is to be encouraged.
“Oh mum! Look at that!” I immediately see the guy with the sandwich board jumping up and down on the edge of the sidewalk.
“Er…..look,” he sputters. I look. I have no clue. “It…it…..it.. nevermind, ya missed it anyways.” I always miss his. I never have any idea what his might be. It's the delay, or rather the speech delay. It catches us both out every time. His radar is tuned to a different map.

“Ooo look mum!” I follow her gaze to the trail of the plane in the sky, the pale blue sky and the squirrely white tail.
“Er…..look!” I look. Nothing? “Er….random.” 'Random' roughly translates to 'whatever,' which roughly translates to defeat, the white flag of surrender in a game that he can never win. It makes me sad and happy at the same time. Happy that he can let it go, avoid the meltdown of frustration. Sad because no matter how hard he tries, and he tries very hard, his word retrieval system is slower than he would wish.
“Looky, looky, looky!” cooes his little brother as a large truck pulls up beside us.
“Pirelli, your favourite what a treat.” He grins from ear to ear, cocks his head to one side so that he may more thoroughly enjoy the lettering in the shiny hub cap.
“Um…..look!” I look. I have no clue. This is the same street that we drive along every day. There is nothing remarkable to remark upon, apart from the sandwich guy and the lady with the Afghans and the plane that we have already made remarks upon, all duly noted.

“What can you see dear?”
“Um….never mind you missed it.” We are stationary at the lights. I keep looking to see if something might be moving away, whether I still might catch it. He tries again. “Er look.” I look. I look for clues. I see nothing that he might find of note.
“Er…..it is……four people…….they are be………two …emerald..camels.” We are nowhere near a zoo. The circus has not come to town. My head flips to right and left to see if any of those words match anything I can see with my own eyes, or if any of the words are approximately near to something that vaguely resembles something that I can see with my own eyes. I know it is something emerald because he can never remember the word green.

“Good grief!”

I see four people walking along in a line, a veritable chain gang without links. They shuffle slowly along a backdrop of tall cypress trees. They flit in and out of focus like zebra passing through brush. Each pair of people has a huge dark green blanket covering the couple. What a gem!

Did you catch the new post [translate that!] on “alien?”

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