Who Pays? Apparently, the Mayor!

An alien dinner on Mars, three embarrassing memories, a flying bicycle, chocolate-covered pretzels and an unexpected conversation with an author. Lunch took a few unusual turns this week, and nobody even had to leave Earth.

By Lunch, well..Birthday girl Rosii was pulled away to an early appointment in Sao Paulo, Monica in Adelaide had a Scouts commitment to fulfill and Nathalie, we think, was happy at home, having left Accra (Ghana) for a few weeks. Which left Fruitloop and the Mayor to eat, drink and be merry.

It began with a sneeze that never happened.

The Mayor was trying to sneeze, but his nose had apparently changed its mind. Fruitloop offered a polite “Bless you,” only to be informed that there was nothing to bless yet.

Perhaps it would come later. The Mayor thanked her and said he looked forward to it.

And so began another perfectly ordinary Lunch meeting.

Except that it wasn’t quite ordinary. Rosii was unavailable, Monica hadn’t appeared, and Nathalie was elsewhere. For once, the Lunch table consisted of just Fruitloop and the Mayor, two people who had plenty to talk about and absolutely no intention of staying on topic.

The official subject was “Who pays?” A perfectly reasonable question, especially when dining out with friends, family or complete strangers. But Fruitloop had other ideas.

She was taking everyone to Mars.

Dinner on Mars, Payment by Embarrassment.

Imagine being invited to dinner by an alien. You arrive on Mars, enjoy a wonderful meal, perhaps admire the strange red landscape through the restaurant window, and then the waiter presents the bill.

Unfortunately, the restaurant does not accept cash, credit cards or PayPal. Payment must be made with three embarrassing memories.

Which memories would you sacrifice? And could you persuade the alien to pay instead?

The Mayor considered the question.

“Only you can ask that kind of question and get away with it.”

He called it a mental striptease, which was probably a fair description of what Fruitloop had just proposed.

But he accepted the challenge.

His first memory came from a school trip to northern Italy. There had been rather too much drinking, and at some point during the night, he had mistaken the dormitory floor for the toilet. Unfortunately, a classmate’s schoolbook may have been caught in the incident.

Years later, the two met again. The encounter was, understandably, a little strange.

His next contribution was considerably more imaginative. Perhaps his first embarrassing moment had occurred at birth, when his mother looked at him and supposedly declared that this could not possibly be her son.

Then came a childhood memory from Tokyo, where he had lived when he was about four years old.

During an Easter egg hunt, the young Mayor had displayed an extraordinary commitment to tidiness. Whenever he discovered an Easter egg, he carefully returned it to its hiding place rather than putting it into his basket.

He was apparently a very organised little boy.

“Something I’m totally incapable of doing today,” he admitted.

There was also a childhood memory involving his father, a collection of white wine that had gone sour, and an unfortunate comment made at precisely the wrong moment. His father had been angrily pouring the ruined wine down an outside drain, and the young Mayor had apparently decided that this was an excellent opportunity to say something clever.

It wasn’t.

Having offered his memories to the imaginary Martian restaurant, the Mayor decided it was Fruitloop’s turn.

After all, fair was fair.

Torn Jeans and a Very Unhelpful Pavement.

Fruitloop’s first embarrassing memory involved a pair of old jeans and the morning school run.

She was taking her son to school when her jeans ripped in a particularly unfortunate place, somewhere underneath her bottom. There was no time to return home and change, so she had to continue.

At school, she politely asked her son whether he could walk in alone.

He refused.

He wanted his mother to accompany him, torn jeans and all.

Children have a wonderful ability to make their parents’ embarrassing moments even more memorable.

The Mayor, however, was not satisfied. He had supplied several stories, and Fruitloop had offered only one.

So she remembered another.

Many years ago, she and a former boyfriend were walking between a large shopping mall and a smaller shopping centre across the road. As they crossed, they spotted an interesting sports car.

Neither recognised the make.

Both became so absorbed in examining the car that they failed to notice a raised section of pavement.

They tripped.

Together.

At exactly the same moment.

The boyfriend scrambled to his feet and pulled Fruitloop up by the arm. Her handbag was on the ground, and they were standing in a busy shopping area where plenty of people might have witnessed their spectacular lack of coordination.

The Mayor wanted to know who had been leading.

Had Fruitloop dragged him down? Had he dragged her? Who was responsible?

Nobody, apparently. They had fallen in perfect harmony.

Fruitloop remembered that her boyfriend immediately looked around to see who had witnessed their little performance. Fortunately, nobody appeared to laugh.

At least, not openly.

Fruitloop herself laughed afterwards.

And somewhere in the middle of this story, the Mayor discovered that South Africans distinguish between a shopping mall and a shopping centre.

Fruitloop explained that a mall might contain 150 or 200 shops, while a shopping centre is usually smaller, perhaps with a supermarket, pharmacy, liquor store and a few other businesses.

The Mayor was fascinated.

He had started with an embarrassing fall and somehow ended up receiving a lesson in South African retail geography.

Such is the educational value of Lunch.

Always Check the Bicycle First.

Fruitloop still owed the Martian waiter another embarrassing memory.

This one involved a bicycle, a Saturday morning cycling group and a lesson learned the hard way.

The group had set out early for a long mountain-bike ride. They were travelling through hilly countryside when they encountered a section of trail damaged by rainwater. Erosion had created deep channels in the ground, and once a bicycle wheel entered one of these channels, getting out was extremely difficult.

Fruitloop didn’t know that.

She tried to steer out.

The bicycle had other plans.

Suddenly she was falling, the bicycle was flying over her head, and her phone was following close behind.

The entire group stopped.

Now, there is apparently an unwritten rule among cyclists. When someone crashes, you don’t immediately ask whether the person is all right.

You ask whether the bicycle is all right.

And that is more or less what happened.

One person retrieved Fruitloop’s phone. Another checked the bicycle. Eventually, somebody remembered to ask about the actual human being lying in the dust.

Her knee hurt, she was covered in dirt, but she wasn’t bleeding.

The most remarkable part was what happened next.

They continued cycling.

The accident had occurred roughly 20 kilometres into a 100-kilometre ride. That left another 80 kilometres of gravel, hills, climbs and descents.

The Mayor was impressed.

He called her a tough woman.

Fruitloop accepted the compliment, although she admitted that if the same thing happened today, she might simply sit down and cry.

Only afterwards did somebody explain the correct technique for dealing with those deep erosion channels: don’t try to climb out of them. Just follow the channel until it is safe to leave.

Very useful advice.

A little late, perhaps.

But useful nonetheless.

An Author at the Lunch Table.

Somewhere between the Martian restaurant and the flying bicycle, the conversation took another unexpected direction.

The Mayor had been having a difficult few days. His car was back in the garage, he was borrowing his mother’s vehicle, and various other frustrations had been piling up.

Even the cat had contributed to the chaos, having previously disappeared into a neighbour’s chicken coop.

But something had improved his mood considerably.

Fruitloop had written a story.

Not a short little piece that could be read between two cups of coffee, but a substantial story whose audio version lasted approximately 57 minutes.

The Mayor had listened to it while sitting at home, following the words as he listened. He had been so absorbed that, for almost an hour, the frustrations of everyday life had disappeared.

He even compared the gradual development of the story to the writing of Marcel Proust, the French novelist famous for his detailed descriptions and extraordinarily long sentences.

Not that Fruitloop had written three-page sentences.

Rather, he admired how the story built itself slowly, one layer upon another, until the reader was completely drawn into its world.

He had enjoyed it so much that he tried listening again while driving to Strasbourg.

Unfortunately, he was using his mother’s car, which had no Bluetooth connection or other modern conveniences.

As he explained, the vehicle had four wheels, an engine and the ability to transport a person from A to B. That was about the extent of its technological achievements.

So the audio played from his phone on the passenger seat, competing with the noise of the diesel engine.

Twice, it stopped at Chapter Three.

Even that did not diminish his enthusiasm.

He wanted people to read the story. Or listen to it. Preferably both.

And he wanted to know how Fruitloop had written it.

When the Characters Start Making Decisions.

Fruitloop explained that the story had taken about three or four days to write, perhaps five.

She began with an idea and a general sense of what she wanted to happen, but she encountered problems along the way. The story needed to be short enough to work as a single piece, yet she had enough ideas to fill something much longer.

Then a waitress entered the story.

Perhaps, Fruitloop thought, the waitress and one of the characters might end up together.

Then there was a lawyer.

Originally, the lawyer had been innocent and relatively unimportant. But as Fruitloop developed the story, she began wondering whether the lawyer might have a more interesting role.

What if she had a hidden motive?

What if she was actually the man’s half-sister?

And what if she kidnapped him because she needed his help to open a vault?

Suddenly, the story had another direction.

The Mayor had imagined Fruitloop sitting somewhere comfortable with a notebook, carefully sketching out her plots and characters.

But that wasn’t how she worked.

She didn’t write down all her ideas beforehand. She carried them around in her head, turning them over, changing them and imagining different possibilities.

Only when she had enough material would she sit down and begin writing the first chapter.

Then she would read it, think about the next chapter, and continue building the story.

Her favourite writing time was when her son was at school, her husband was sleeping a little later, and the house was quiet.

With a cup of coffee beside her, she could disappear into the world she was creating.

She was already thinking about a second part to her Lucy Mackenzie story.

Where was Lucy now? Was she still locked away somewhere? Would she escape? Would she find friends? What unexpected twist might change everything?

The ideas had been developing in her mind for two or three months.

Nothing had been written down yet.

The Mayor was intrigued by another detail. Many of Fruitloop’s stories were not tied to specific geographical locations. A story might take place somewhere in America, but it could just as easily happen in London, New York or France.

Some stories did have clearer settings, such as her safari story involving poachers. But often, the location was less important than the characters and what happened to them.

Fruitloop also mentioned an older, more personal manuscript that she had put aside. She hadn’t opened it for a long time, although she might return to it one day. There were repetitive sections she wanted to change or remove.

For now, it was waiting.

The Mayor, meanwhile, had already decided that he was having lunch with an undiscovered author.

Fruitloop wasn’t quite sure what to do with all the compliments.

But she was pleased that he had enjoyed her work.

And for someone who had started the morning feeling rather grumpy, the Mayor was now having a very good day.

France, Bakeries and the Chocolate Pretzel Scandal.

The conversation eventually moved from imaginary worlds to a possible real-world adventure in France.

Fruitloop and the Mayor had recently spoken with Fabrice about what a visit to his part of France might look like. There had been suggestions involving bakeries, restaurants, sightseeing and plenty of food.

Fruitloop thought Fabrice had been excellent at thinking on his feet. With a little planning, perhaps a written schedule for each day, she believed he could organise a wonderful visit.

When the Mayor asked what picture she had of the region, Fruitloop described something that felt almost like a permanent holiday.

Not that she believed everyone in France spent their lives relaxing, but she imagined a different rhythm, with beautiful bakeries, fresh bread and places to sit down for coffee.

In South Africa, she explained, there was a bakery chain she particularly liked. It sold croissants, baguettes, fresh bread, homemade ice cream, fudge and pastries. You could even sit down for breakfast or a meal.

The difficulty was getting there.

Depending on the branch, she might have to drive 20 or 30 kilometres.

In France, she imagined such places being much closer together.

The Mayor described the abundance he associated with French bakeries, especially in the morning, when shelves were filled with fresh bread and pastries. By afternoon, many of those shelves would be empty.

Then the subject of pretzels appeared.

The Mayor remembered that Fruitloop had once said she had never eaten a pretzel.

Had she finally tried one?

Yes, she had.

And not just any pretzel.

A chocolate-covered pretzel.

The Mayor was astonished.

Chocolate?

On a pretzel?

Fruitloop explained that it had been covered in dark chocolate and hadn’t been excessively sweet. She had even sent him a photograph months earlier.

He had apparently forgotten.

Worse, she reminded him that he had already questioned the chocolate when she first sent the picture.

The Mayor was now facing a serious memory problem.

How could he possibly have forgotten something as important as a chocolate-covered pretzel?

He would have to search through thousands of photographs to find the evidence.

Champagne in the Bush.

From bakeries, the conversation wandered into restaurants and the differences between what people imagine and what they actually experience.

The Mayor mentioned a restaurant in Strasbourg that he had recommended for a possible meeting with Monica. It looked elegant and cosy, particularly in winter, with warm lighting and the promise of good food.

Fruitloop thought it sounded rather fancy.

But the Mayor explained that appearances could be misleading. A restaurant might look expensive without necessarily requiring a bank loan to eat there.

He had another example.

Champagne in the African bush.

Whenever he imagined such an occasion, he pictured two people sitting on a rock or a ledge somewhere in the wilderness, with a bottle of champagne, two glasses and perhaps a few small snacks.

Possibly with wildlife nearby, wondering whether the humans might make a more interesting lunch than whatever was on the menu.

Then Fruitloop had produced an image for The Pineapple showing a rather different scene.

Instead of a lonely rock and two glasses, there was an elegant safari setting, a properly laid table and all the trimmings of a luxurious dining experience.

It looked more like a five-star restaurant than the Mayor’s modest picnic in the wilderness.

His expectations had been completely overturned.

And he rather liked that.

Sometimes the picture we carry in our heads is only one version of what the world might look like.

Reality has a habit of presenting another.

The Missing Guests and the Imaginary Bubbly.

Throughout Lunch, the absent members were never entirely forgotten.

The Mayor was particularly disappointed that Rosii wasn’t there, because it was her birthday and they had hoped to sing Happy Birthday to her.

He considered it a scandal that they couldn’t perform their usual musical tribute, although he described their singing more accurately as croaking.

Perhaps it was just as well. They would have more time to practise before the next meeting.

They also wondered what Monica might be doing. Given her reputation as a night owl, perhaps she was having dinner, attending a concert or enjoying an evening out.

There was no way of knowing.

The Mayor joked that it was rather like Christmas. Everyone knew it was coming, but somehow the occasion still managed to catch people by surprise.

And so, with the rest of the Lunch table missing, Fruitloop and the Mayor continued their private little adventure through embarrassing memories, fictional mysteries, cycling accidents, French bakeries and chocolate pretzels.

At one point, the Mayor suggested that they should have these smaller Lunch meetings more often.

Perhaps everyone else should stay away.

Fruitloop immediately invited the missing members to come back and take their seats.

Nobody was being excluded.

And in Rosii’s honour, they raised an imaginary glass of bubbly.

After all, a birthday deserves celebrating, even when the birthday girl cannot attend.

And Finally, Who Pays?

By the time Lunch was coming to an end, the original topic had almost disappeared.

They had travelled to Mars, revisited northern Italy and childhood Tokyo, fallen over a South African pavement, survived a spectacular mountain-bike crash, explored the imagination of a storyteller and wandered through the bakeries of France.

The Mayor was preparing to have his morning coffee.

Fruitloop was approaching lunchtime and needed to collect her son from school.

Different countries, different clocks, and two people who had somehow managed to spend a delightful hour together without ever ordering a meal.

Then, just before saying goodbye, the Mayor remembered the question.

“Who’s paying, you or me?”

Fruitloop didn’t hesitate.

“You are. I’m sorry, we want the honest truth, you are.”

The Mayor accepted his responsibility with pleasure, although he noted that the expense would not be tax-deductible under his company’s arrangements.

And that settled it.

The Mayor would take the bill.

Of course, there hadn’t been a real restaurant, a real waiter or an actual meal. The champagne was imaginary, the Martian dinner had never happened, and the only thing anyone had truly spent was time.

But perhaps that was the nicest part of Lunch.

Nobody needed to count the cost of an embarrassing memory, calculate the price of a croissant or decide who owed whom for a cup of coffee.

There had been stories, laughter, curiosity and the pleasure of discovering things about someone you thought you already knew.

The Mayor had started the morning waiting for a sneeze that refused to arrive.

By the end, he had discovered that he was sharing Lunch with an author.

And Fruitloop had managed to get someone else to pay.

Not a bad result for a Thursday.