Robin Watch (2)

In which Robin attempts to fit as many people in his studio as he possibly can.

I watched from the spacious comfort of the not-born-yet-baby’s room, getting an excellent view of all the excitement and wrestling with a mamas and papas pilko travel system, which came in a box bigger than Robin’s studio. It was vast. I’m thinking of hiring it out for weddings and bat mizvahs.

Robin could play that game that kids play where you say “I went to the shops and I bought…” except Robin would say “I went to my studio and in it was that lady with a bad hip who lives in the next street, the man who owns the restaurant round the corner, the guy who drives a black cab and nearly ran the Froosh over once, the woman with the twins, that boy who bounces his basketball up and down the damn street at nine on a Sunday morning, three women who all looked kind of the same so must, surely, be related.” Then he’d have to stop for breath or something. “A old man with a stick, that guy from up the road who’s going to Spain to live, for good, my old mate who comes round all the time, that neighbour with the ski jacket with the massive hood and Bill who drives the Merc.” And again with the breath. “That man who was drunk on the tube in a pinstripe suit who amused the Froosh by falling over, the woman with awful hair…..” And so it would go on. And on.

Sadly, the door opens inwards and they couldn’t shut it without decapitating a small child and squashing an old lady, so once they were all in there they had to suffer the stiff breeze which doubtless whipped through the throng.

It better not have been a party, and me with an airing cupboard full of red wine and twiglets.