Observations at the Foodhall

I sit quietly having finished my Subway, and am noticing the ceiling at the foodhall in Garden City. It is the most haphazard pastiche of wooden planks, feature items, and lights. The casual impression is of a quality ceiling appropriate for a public foodhall. But it is an illusion. The feature items, lights, and so on are sparsely spaced exposing a jumble of metal rods, wires, air conditioning ducts and electrical apparatus, and the blunt grey of the real ceiling above.

Most people totally ignore the ceiling, their attention is solely on eating. The only person I can detect who is constantly analysing the ceiling is a baby lying in a pram. He lies there contentedly staring upwards, apparently well satisfied with the overall features of the design.

To my right an old lady is attacking her container of rice curry. She is shaky, but determined. She stabs the rice with a small wooden spoon, and eagerly leans forward to carefully transport a quivering morsel towards her waiting lips. Her mouth is open, her lips protrude, her eyes focus, but alas, much of the rice in the spoon tumbles off. It cascades from the table onto her lap. But a scrap of rice remains proudly in the spoon, and the old lady heroically carries it through those protruding lips and into the eager vortex of her mouth.

At the circle of seats sit a Chinese couple quietly enjoying their stir fry. A small boy, not connected to the Chinese, is standing on the seat next to them flinging himself around. The Chinese are stoic and act as though no such boy exists. The silly boy actually bangs the shoulder of the Chinese man. Without any sign of annoyance the Chinese man spears his chop stick into the boy’s bottom. The boy lurches and disappears out of sight. The Chinese couple continue to eat, eyes down, displaying absolutely no sign of discomfort.

Over there, a young girl, maybe two or three years old, is learning to eat noodles using her fingers. She stands on her chair holding one end of a long stringy noodle. She holds it above her head and gapes up at it with tongue hanging out. The noodle splats over her chin and wraps around her nose until she finally harnesses the waving end with her tongue, whereupon she immediately opens her fingers allowing the noodle to plop down into the folds of her shirt. Unconcerned, she burrows the tangle out and, with the palm of her hand, shovels it in her mouth.

Two teenage girls sit down at a table near me. They look smart in black tights and snug fitting harness tops. They seem excited, lean in to each other, and talk in great animation as they spoon yoghurt from paper cups. They are joined by two youths carrying Hungry Jacks bags. In contrast to the girls, the boys are dressed sloppily. They plonk themselves down, take little notice of the girls preferring to tuck into their chips. The girls stop for five seconds to look at the boys. There is no response, the boys are busy. One girl pinches a chip, still no response. The girls return to their giggling and gossip.

The old lady has nearly ladled all the rice out of the bowl. Most of it which hasn’t fallen to the floor is dotted around the table and on her lap. She makes a final hungry sortie into the bowl with her spoon and shakily winkles out the last precious grains. This valuable cargo she transports with extra caution, but alas these treasured grains of hope also fall to join the others on her lap. She glances around to see if anyone has noticed her. I quickly dart my eyes away, but can see her surreptitiously scooping the rice off her lap onto the floor.

It must be time for me to go.