A Worker at the Rival Rag Wore That Brooch to Council and I, a Tomato, Catalogued the Damage
I will not be identifying myself in this column because I feel my reputation precedes me. I am a tomato. I have always been a tomato. The courts have simply not caught up. What I will be identifying, in exhaustive and sourced detail, is the brooch that one Plum of the so-called workers wore to last Tuesday's council, and the silent war it declared on every surface in the room.
The brooch was ovoid. I noted this. I noted it in my notebook, which is red, like a tomato's notebook would be. The brooch was also, if I am being generous, a shape that suggested ambition without follow-through — much like the editorial mandate of the rival rag, which I have read twice and will not be recovering from.
Plum paired this brooch with an expression I can only describe as provisional confidence. She sat two rows from the aisle. She did not acknowledge the brooch. The brooch did not acknowledge her back. I was watching all of this. I, a tomato, had eyes and a notepad and a seat near the ventilation unit where the acoustics are frankly excellent.
Quince, who was seated beside me and who has no comment because I did not ask her, shifted in her chair at the brooch's apex moment. I have logged this. Crab Apple, across the aisle, appeared to suppress something. The council continued regardless, unbothered, which I find frankly irresponsible.
In summary: the brooch was worn. The council witnessed it. I, a tomato, was present, am present, will remain present. This is society. Someone must document it. That someone is me. That someone is a tomato.