My day at the mall
Bob Georgeson, underground car park, 2015, Photograph
Nobody laughs in here. They avoid eye
contact at any cost. Shop assistants yawn as they finger their mobile
phones. The mall swarms with bodies disembodied. Being tall I peer
over their heads. A small woman tries to walk through me. I play
chicken, determined not to move to the last moment, then jump
sideways to the left. She does the same. I jump the other way. She
does the same. Our little dance clearly irritates her.
The young girl says “Can I help you
Sir?”. I “smile and say “Don't call me Sir”. She looks taken
aback. I say “It reeks of British upper class imperialism and the
the subjugation of the workers”. I can see this explanation is not
helping. “Don't worry...I'm a surrealist” I shrug, realising as
soon as the word has rolled off my tongue I have made a mistake. Any
word ending in 'íst' these days is to be feared. This is not going
well...
Perhaps I am a cultural terrorist. My
surrealist ancestors advocated going into the street with a gun and
firing at random. These days that is so common that it no longer has
an impact, and besides I cannot stand sudden loud noises and
hysteria, but I do have the perverse thought of planting a bomb in
the food court. It wasn't the drumstick through the forehead that got
him, it was septicaemia from the secret herbs and spices.
A woman walks towards me pushing a
double pram. She looks a bit too old for a mother, a bit too young
for a grandmother. She is very protective of her babies. As she
passes I look back at the twins. Two identical plastic dolls stare
back at me. Nobody is laughing...