We may all lose with the march of the Molly
IN one way, it just came out. But in another way, I did it very deliberately. It could have been boredom, or maybe I just felt like a fight, to feel a little bit alive in my hangover. "Move it along there, Molly," I said to a pedestrian who was crossing in front of us. He couldn't hear me. But he wasn't the intended audience. My wife was. The Molly was maybe a bit younger than me, dressed in that way that some Dadmen do, clothes that were fashionable maybe five years ago when he last gave serious thought to his look, before marriage and kids turned him into a Dadman and a Molly.
The main impression he gave off could be summed up in the word unthreatening. His trousers, to use that word, were corduroy, somehow the most unthreatening but simultaneously creepy of all fabrics.
And, I should say, he was pushing a buggy. It was Sunday and this poor sap was walking around in his cords pushing a buggy. Maybe he had just come from an orgy but I'm thinking maybe not.