Yesterday I attended the annual Boxing Day conference hosting by Cambridge OCRC. Despite the fact that it wasn’t on the 26th this year it was still profitable and fun. Usually we take a quick tour of the mall during the time allotted for dinner, which we did again this year. As we were briskly marching towards our current destination (SportChek, I think) I made the mistake of glancing towards one of the tables set up in the middle of the wide hall. The lady there pounced on my flicker of interested and called out for me to try some skin cream. I thought, “Does it look like I care about skin cream?” but I felt it would be rude to just ignore her and hustle on so I stopped. She thrust a container into my hand, something like they’d put a side of mayonnaise in at a restaurant, with the tiniest drop of some pale goo in the bottom. She looked at my hands and proclaimed that they were dry and in need of her product. As I peered down at the cream I considered asking her if it was to be taken internally. Instead I just rubbed in on and smiled politely. While I was busy with that she asked if I wanted the dead skin removed from my hands. My imagination furnished me with an scene that was painful or awkward or both and I declined, saying that I had to catch up with my pals, and took off. My hands did feel softer after the cream, though, and more watermelon-scented.
