Urban Jungle
Electric House, early afternoon, the low arched room that stretches with opulence was scantily clad; perfect young women with perfect young hair scraped back for the serious stuff of tapping importance into laptops. Not many, just enough to fill the hush. A central table and sofas adorned with mothers and babies, a pram blocked the way between tables. A little girl knocked over crayons and demanded she take the menu home. Her mother patiently explained the restaurant would be cross. Her mother had perfect hair too. Blonde and rich. Thick to the shoulders. As they left I realised the other…
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