siren caul

Written by Cathoel Jorss, published 11 years ago

Stopped for an orange juice at a stall where the man squeezes oranges one at a time, by hand, for one euro per glass. Chivalrously he added a straw to mine, not to my male companion’s, though I have not worn nor owned a lipstick since 1996. While we were drinking our juices a string of police vans streaked past, sirens blaring. Instinctively both of us put up our hands over our ears. I squinched my eyes shut too, as if that would help. We were standing on a traffic island in a crossroads that’s surrounded on all sides by cafes and pizza and kebab shops. When I opened my eyes people all round the square had their hands over their ears in unison.

Once I was on a full plane carrying some 90 school children from an outback Queensland town who were travelling to Sydney. When the plane left the ground many of them gave an audible gasp. Seconds later the whole plane was laughing. Inadvertently to share a genuine gesture with dozens of strangers: it’s like accidental dancing.