Threesome in a chip shop.

Walking on Woodseats still weak from a viscous bout of man-flu I glance in. Two women in white T-shirts and pinnies cleaning down the fish fryers, tattling now the queue’s gone. A strangely humorous idea, a threesome in a chip shop. The dangers of bare bottom backing into hot stainless, wild lunges dislodging the mushy peas, one’s dangling part dangling in … or caught in … Multiple layers of incongruity. But there are positives. It’s hot, sweaty with liberal quantities of warm chip fat on hand. There may even be a place for salt and pepper, no vinegar. Yes slippery condimented bodies. But then. Pretty soon one wouldn’t be able to get a meaningful grip on anything, even the things one wanted to, not even stand up, be reduced to slithering about on the floor. An old lady would comment through the steamy window, “Well I never knew cod were that big. Must be right fresh though.” Sensuous sex is reduced to a fight for slithering survival, and as the earnest endeavour for sexual gratification fades into futility they begin to laugh. “Ee Margaret you look set to swim’t channel.” “aven’t been this lathered since week in’t Costa del Sol.” I walk on. Some day’s life seems just brimming over with humour. Not the mundane reality but the endless embroidery of it. I’ve often been in that chip shop queuing for fish, chips and curry sauce but I never imagined what they got up to once the fat cooled down.