A Scene (Writing exercise)
Red, blue, green and yellow – a smorgasbord of coloured balloons of various shapes and sizes, bobbed above the poster “Happy Birthday, Dylan”. This is the standard billboard for these kinds of events. The children’s voices, shrill and merry, a hullabaloo of party pandemonium grew louder with each step. Candy-saturated and cake gorged faces greeted the late arrival at my side, and in a second, my son disappeared amongst a blur of face painted buddies.
Alone, I turned to brave the clique of mothers seated at the tea table. Painfully and embarrassingly aware of every move of my awkward frame, I approached the women with a self-conscious smile. The voices in my head were critical: you should have washed your hair; why didn’t you put some make-up on; and what were you thinking putting on that oversized, floral-print top?
A glance to my left revealed a happy and enthusiastically received boy perched barefoot, atop a jumping-castle parapet. “Look at me, mom!” he yelled before he leapt with a playful war-cry of “yaaahhhh!” into the tribe that waited below. His mop of blonde curls bounced as he did so.
“Time to go”, I wanted to shout to him, anything to avoid the inevitable snub that awaited me.
“This is Luc’s mother, Adrienne”, a voice announced from the seated sorority behind me.
“’Allo”, I replied, as I turned to confront them, my French accent immediately evident. A hushed silence fell.
“Oh, you’re French”, said one of them.
“Yes” I replied, as I made my way to the nearest empty chair – blue and made of flimsy-looking plastic.
“We moved here from the Alsace, it was three years ago now”, I said with my best attempt at a friendly smile. My mother would have been proud.
A few “ah’s” and “oh’s” reverberated, followed by the clinking of tea cups and spoons on plates. I eyed the water - a heavy looking jug of iced, lemon Evian. Don’t spill it, whatever you do, I said to myself as I reached for it and began to pour. Conversation slowly resumed amongst the group. Cool refreshment in hand, I turned to watch the chortling troupe of young friends run towards a wooden framed jungle-gym. I sipped the lemon-scented drink and made yet another effort at polite conversation.
“This is a fun place for the children”, I commented, “very nice”.
“Yes, it is”, said another mother, as she nibbled at a piece of carrot cake, Gucci glasses resting on her head.
I looked at my watch, not a polite thing to do I realised and clumsily reached for my mobile to compensate, as if I’d been expecting a call.
“It is lucky for them that the weather is good”, I said.
This time I was ignored. It was going to be a long afternoon, despite my intentional and selfish tardiness.
Alone, I turned to brave the clique of mothers seated at the tea table. Painfully and embarrassingly aware of every move of my awkward frame, I approached the women with a self-conscious smile. The voices in my head were critical: you should have washed your hair; why didn’t you put some make-up on; and what were you thinking putting on that oversized, floral-print top?
A glance to my left revealed a happy and enthusiastically received boy perched barefoot, atop a jumping-castle parapet. “Look at me, mom!” he yelled before he leapt with a playful war-cry of “yaaahhhh!” into the tribe that waited below. His mop of blonde curls bounced as he did so.
“Time to go”, I wanted to shout to him, anything to avoid the inevitable snub that awaited me.
“This is Luc’s mother, Adrienne”, a voice announced from the seated sorority behind me.
“’Allo”, I replied, as I turned to confront them, my French accent immediately evident. A hushed silence fell.
“Oh, you’re French”, said one of them.
“Yes” I replied, as I made my way to the nearest empty chair – blue and made of flimsy-looking plastic.
“We moved here from the Alsace, it was three years ago now”, I said with my best attempt at a friendly smile. My mother would have been proud.
A few “ah’s” and “oh’s” reverberated, followed by the clinking of tea cups and spoons on plates. I eyed the water - a heavy looking jug of iced, lemon Evian. Don’t spill it, whatever you do, I said to myself as I reached for it and began to pour. Conversation slowly resumed amongst the group. Cool refreshment in hand, I turned to watch the chortling troupe of young friends run towards a wooden framed jungle-gym. I sipped the lemon-scented drink and made yet another effort at polite conversation.
“This is a fun place for the children”, I commented, “very nice”.
“Yes, it is”, said another mother, as she nibbled at a piece of carrot cake, Gucci glasses resting on her head.
I looked at my watch, not a polite thing to do I realised and clumsily reached for my mobile to compensate, as if I’d been expecting a call.
“It is lucky for them that the weather is good”, I said.
This time I was ignored. It was going to be a long afternoon, despite my intentional and selfish tardiness.
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