Outremont

Today I have been thinking about being rich.

I am sitting in a park in Outremont. Genteel, well-heeled, civilized Outremont. As I eat my take-away lunch on a park bench, I look across to the solid brick homes that line the park, their white colonnades looming over perfect shrubbery. The children playing behind me are better dressed than I'll ever be. Their parents and nannies discrete in soft tones of grey, beige and brown.

I eat greasy chickpeas sprinkled with coriander and fantasize about which house I'd buy if some yet unknown wealthy relative were to die and leave me their millions.

The cupids on the fountain are well-fed and insolently cherubic. The hasidic kids keep kicking their yellow ball into what is left of the pond. Bald men in camel coats, large sunglasses and perfect scarves pass with pretty women on their arms. My lips are shiny with roast eggplant but I won't wipe them yet, there is more beet salad to be eaten.

The sun is shining and the buds are a hazy blur of neon green on the branches of old trees. There is no loud music, no honking cars, nor yelled conversations. Everything is calm, composed.

A walking tour crosses the park, the leader in the hat one would expect of a tour guide. What does she tell them? 'This is what money looks like'?

I finish my lunch, wipe my fork and fold away my paper napkins. You never know when they could come in handy.