Potato

The street’s busy with a steady stream of mostly young, at least young to me, twenty-somethings, students and flat-sharing office workers all heading in the same direction, walking from the city centre and the university. Being mid-winter, it’s dark and wet, the pavements glossy and lit by the dim light of street lamps fixed to the walls of the tenements and the light that could make it out of shop windows, past the signs for special offers and through the heavy glass of the high windows of The Grapes.

She’s walking along with a friend, talking and laughing, animated, gesturing with her free right hand. The left is weighed down with shopping but it’s still trying to copy the right, mirroring the gestures but limited by the weight of the bag, which jerks in response to her attempts to move it. It’s one of these jerks that throws a potato over the edge of the bag and she doesn’t notice it go, its soft bounce on the pavement too quiet to catch her attention.

Walking a few yards behind there’s three young men, students probably in their low-slung jeans and hoodies. Under-dressed for the weather, the parent in me notes, they’re walking in a line across the pavement. The one on the outside must have seen the potato make its escape and without breaking stride lowered himself down and swung his arm scooping it up like a cricketer as it rolled and bounced along the street towards him. He ran after her, shouting, holding out the potato like it was a love token and this was the gift that would win her heart.