Almost Perfect

RHYS IS SUNDAY SHOPPING WITH THE MISSUS

Rhys was delighted. ‘Look, Gwen, I’ve found you an alien!’

Gwen looked up from a crap jewellery stand. Towering over them was a street performer, covered in metal plate and body armour. Silver tendrils spilled out of the top of his head. ‘Yes, love,’ she said. ‘If only it was that easy.’

A crowd was watching the alien, who must have been almost three metres tall. There was a grim nobility about the performance – a stern refusal to move or even acknowledge the shoppers. The alien had a pitch on Queen Street, just away from a man singing into a traffic cone, a cluster of mobile phone shops and some students handing out free samples of a new cereal bar.

A man rolled up next to the alien and opened up his stall of ties, watches and sunglasses. The crowd’s attention wandered slightly. Ever professional, the alien shifted its weight subtly, a mass of heaving tendrils drifting across from behind its head. A small child shrieked, which aroused some ‘oohs’.

Rhys was entranced. Gwen giggled. ‘What are you like?’

Rhys shrugged. ‘Well, yeah – but he’s very good isn’t he? Way better than the Chaplin that used to be here. I know he’s made those flappy things out of an old mop, but he’s done it well, hasn’t he?’

‘Suppose,’ Gwen’s eye was caught by one of the suited children working at a mobile shop. He was edging closer with leaflets and a smile. She shuddered and started to steer Rhys away by the elbow.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Rhys, not quite moving with her. This was the start of a little routine with him, as ritual as the way he licked his knife after buttering toast. ‘If he were a real alien, we’d all run screaming. But here he is, and we’re all… you know… interested… but a bit bored. Not scared.’

‘Yeah yeah – it’s an integration scheme run by the Tourist Board. Now let’s go stretch a pound.’

Rhys finally moved away. And as they went, Gwen glanced back at the alien.

It winked.