Lunch

An owner tries to coax her morbidly obese dog to walk home. He's a fat black labrador whose back legs are struggling to hold himself up.

The man at the next door table asks, "what would make you happier, babe?" into his mobile phone. Its the start of one of those conversations where he's full of ideas to solve your problems (ring friends up and suggest things you want to do, make an effort with them, be enthusiastic) and then hits her with the you're-not-very-good-at-being-proactive criticism.

I'm imaginging a snivelling wreck of a woman on the other end, snotty from crying incontrollably with long blond hair. "You have to use your brain to think up ideas that you want to do, rather than just tagging along," he continues.

The fat dog has managed to get half a block.

"What's different between them and you?" She must be having one of those what's-wrong-with-me, everybody else is so lucky, victim whines. "What'll it be like for me when we go to Brazil and I have no friends or family around?" She is suddenly no longer blond but instead a firey brunette.

Fat dog has gone round the corner.

He's moved into motivating mode - trying to get her to do something, go out, look at architecture, do some drawing, get excited. "Can you see I'm trying to help and love you?"

Barf.