“Ah, Marjorie, you can’t use the grater for that!”
Marjorie, visibly exasperated, sighed more audibly than necessary.
“Then what, Diane? What can I use the grater for?”
“Cheese, Majorie, cheese.”
Her ‘e’s stretched.
“Or a stick of butter perhaps. Yes. A stick of butter.”
Marjorie could not believe.
“You have no imagination, Diane.”
“And you, Marjorie. You have too much.”
Marjorie chose not to reply, and instead let her focus drift to her surroundings, her left hand still with a relatively firm hold on the grater, her right holding the shell that she had been trying to grate. She had wanted to make ‘shellings’, like ‘shillings’, so she could go to the corner shop and try to buy a juicebox and when the assistant would refuse she could say, ‘but I have shellings – but with an accent on the e - real tender!’ and then she would laugh and laugh.
She had had better ideas.
“I want to go to Morocco, Diane. I want to see the people there.”
Marjorie did not let her focus drift from nothing.
“By all means, Marjorie. Just leave the grater.”
Diane was not listening but this was alright, as Marjorie was not speaking to her.
“Or maybe Eastern Europe.”
Marjorie mused, and absent-mindedly went back to scratching the conch shell down the side of the grater that had not the little holes, nor the littler ones, but the three lengthy slicers that she had not found a use for before.
“Mmm, it’s cold there.”
Diane’s back was turned. And she spoke too softly. So Marjorie spoke louder.
“WHAT'S THAT DIANE?”
“It’s cold there.”
Diane enunciated but hardly a fraction louder.
“It’s cold here.”
Diane turned then, to see Marjorie pout, idly dragging her little shell across the metal so that it made a ridiculously useless sound. She wore a light, short-sleeved blouse.
Diane went back to her onions.
Marjorie, visibly exasperated, sighed more audibly than necessary.
“Then what, Diane? What can I use the grater for?”
“Cheese, Majorie, cheese.”
Her ‘e’s stretched.
“Or a stick of butter perhaps. Yes. A stick of butter.”
Marjorie could not believe.
“You have no imagination, Diane.”
“And you, Marjorie. You have too much.”
Marjorie chose not to reply, and instead let her focus drift to her surroundings, her left hand still with a relatively firm hold on the grater, her right holding the shell that she had been trying to grate. She had wanted to make ‘shellings’, like ‘shillings’, so she could go to the corner shop and try to buy a juicebox and when the assistant would refuse she could say, ‘but I have shellings – but with an accent on the e - real tender!’ and then she would laugh and laugh.
She had had better ideas.
“I want to go to Morocco, Diane. I want to see the people there.”
Marjorie did not let her focus drift from nothing.
“By all means, Marjorie. Just leave the grater.”
Diane was not listening but this was alright, as Marjorie was not speaking to her.
“Or maybe Eastern Europe.”
Marjorie mused, and absent-mindedly went back to scratching the conch shell down the side of the grater that had not the little holes, nor the littler ones, but the three lengthy slicers that she had not found a use for before.
“Mmm, it’s cold there.”
Diane’s back was turned. And she spoke too softly. So Marjorie spoke louder.
“WHAT'S THAT DIANE?”
“It’s cold there.”
Diane enunciated but hardly a fraction louder.
“It’s cold here.”
Diane turned then, to see Marjorie pout, idly dragging her little shell across the metal so that it made a ridiculously useless sound. She wore a light, short-sleeved blouse.
Diane went back to her onions.
