I was laying on my side at Pilates class, trying to relax and concentrate at the same time. Only problem was the lady next to me. Well, not her, but her shirt. It was a black band t-shirt, and with her back to me I could read a list of UK tour dates: Corn Exchange, Cambridge; UEA, Norwich; Colston Hall, Bristol. Nice venues. What group, I wondered. I had to wait until she turned onto her other side.
Australian Pink Floyd
I quickly rotated so she wouldn’t think I was staring at her chest. Now it was even harder to breathe. Knowing that such a thing as Australian Pink Floyd exists is hard enough. That this group had toured all the way across the world, being welcomed into big halls in Great Britain, really made me wonder. And on top of all that, that someone would actually buy a shirt to commemorate the occasion.
I thought of talking to her about it. Maybe she’d just grabbed the nearest clean shirt. Maybe it had come from a charity shop where, in the heat of the moment, she or her husband had thought they’d snagged a genuine Pink Floyd t-shirt? Maybe she was having a laugh, wearing it ironically, like someone might have worn an Osmonds t-shirt back in the days when everyone didn’t proudly admit they secretly love everything awful.
Or maybe it had been the best night of her life, seeing Australian Pink Floyd.
Damn, now I kind of want to see them.