Absurdity

Mme Metro and I are walking past our local park, where a group of lissom and lithe young things is giving an exhibition of belly dancing.

Among their number is a woman I'll call Fatima. I don't know who she is, but she deserves a name like that to go with the way she throws her hips and shakes her ample booty around.

Fatima's race and her creed don't matter here between us, O Avid Fan. What matter are her stats. She is posessed of heavy, ripe breasts covered by a blue brassiere, and a sweetly curved fundament decorated by a classically filmy pair of harem pants; and in between her belly rises like BC place.

She has a dreamy look on her face, kohl rimmed eyes half-closed in an ecstasty that seems more than half-sexual. She is entirely captivating.

As I stand there with Mme, wrapped in reverie, a coarse voice cuts through the air:

"I can't believe the fat chick's up there."

A look over confirms my initial assessment. The speaker is six-foot-plus. Ridiculously, he is slab-sided and thick through his middle. The whole of his massive and hairy body is insufficiently hidden by a ratty black T-shirt and cargo shorts. White, dingy socks disappear into runners that look as though they've tired of holding his bulk. One meaty arm is clutching a cardboard carton of fries with gravy.

The cauldron calls kettle black I think to myself.