Orangina

A long time ago I was on the beach. The sun was hot. The wind was blowing off the water. The sky was cloudless. The water was an azure blue. The views were magnificent: out to sea, up and down the coast, into the hills behind us. It was summer. This was the Riviera. This was Nice.

Around us, people lay in the sun soaking up the rays and drinking drinks sold by vendors who appeared from nowhere when the police had gone away. The vendors shouted their wares.

Orangina. Beer-a. Cola!

Schweppsssss.

That was a long time ago on a beach a long, long way away from here.

The other day I bought a bottle of Orangina. I bought it with distant echos of Nice bouncing in my head. I bought it to sip a bit from time to time, to sip and to share.

So imagine my surprise when I finally opened the refrigerator door to take out the cool bottle and pour myself a drink only to find a tablespoon or so of the Orangina left. A tablespoon!

Who would do such a thing, drink all but a tablespoon of the Orangina?

I think I know.

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