Booth(y) call
Ever used one of those photo booths you find in shopping malls? The ones that give you four mug shots for five euro? They’re horribly depressing, aren’t they? I always hope that someone comes out as Superman (or –woman, if you fancy a transsexual superhero), but that never happens. The pictures you get are always too bright and you’re never quite in the centre. And you feel so exposed in those cubicles, hiding behind your curtain as if you’re some pervert doing whatever perverts do in there.
Yesterday, I was in Dun Loaghaire shopping centre and there you had it. Some middle-aged woman came out of this booth (Well, she would have been middle aged if she lives to be 110). Anyway, she gave me the “Oh-my-God-you-saw-that?”-look, as if I caught her during the act. I replied with my “Did-I-ever!”-look, although there might have been a slight hint of “What-are-you-on-about” in my gaze.
Why would you want a picture of yourself, woman? And why do you want to have it taken in a booth? Look at yourself, you’re gigantic. You barely fit in there. Go to a proper photographer, in a building! This woman wasn’t chubby, she was huge. I mean, look-out-Sri-Lanka-she’s-coming-in-and-it’s-gonna-be-so-much-worse-when-this-hits-you-huge. How can people let themselves go like that? It’s just a photo booth, not an Extreme Makeover-booth. Oh, by the way, ten kilos of make-up don’t hide the fact you’re huge. It just stops you from getting into the US. “Excuse me madam, the amount of make up on your nose is considered to be a weapon of mass destruction in this country. I’m afraid it’s a one-way-ticket to Guantanamo Bay for you.”
She stumbled out of the booth, gave a Godzillaesque roar into her cell-phone and disappeared into the crepuscule. I went to Tesco and bought some bread and salmon from the omnipotent British imperialist mega-value bastards, went home, watched Stargate and called it a night. Life can be great at times.
Ever used one of those photo booths you find in shopping malls? The ones that give you four mug shots for five euro? They’re horribly depressing, aren’t they? I always hope that someone comes out as Superman (or –woman, if you fancy a transsexual superhero), but that never happens. The pictures you get are always too bright and you’re never quite in the centre. And you feel so exposed in those cubicles, hiding behind your curtain as if you’re some pervert doing whatever perverts do in there.
Yesterday, I was in Dun Loaghaire shopping centre and there you had it. Some middle-aged woman came out of this booth (Well, she would have been middle aged if she lives to be 110). Anyway, she gave me the “Oh-my-God-you-saw-that?”-look, as if I caught her during the act. I replied with my “Did-I-ever!”-look, although there might have been a slight hint of “What-are-you-on-about” in my gaze.
Why would you want a picture of yourself, woman? And why do you want to have it taken in a booth? Look at yourself, you’re gigantic. You barely fit in there. Go to a proper photographer, in a building! This woman wasn’t chubby, she was huge. I mean, look-out-Sri-Lanka-she’s-coming-in-and-it’s-gonna-be-so-much-worse-when-this-hits-you-huge. How can people let themselves go like that? It’s just a photo booth, not an Extreme Makeover-booth. Oh, by the way, ten kilos of make-up don’t hide the fact you’re huge. It just stops you from getting into the US. “Excuse me madam, the amount of make up on your nose is considered to be a weapon of mass destruction in this country. I’m afraid it’s a one-way-ticket to Guantanamo Bay for you.”
She stumbled out of the booth, gave a Godzillaesque roar into her cell-phone and disappeared into the crepuscule. I went to Tesco and bought some bread and salmon from the omnipotent British imperialist mega-value bastards, went home, watched Stargate and called it a night. Life can be great at times.
