12 Aliquot

I have watched for a moment, through the basement window of the Catering School, attention paid by the Master as her student scoops a goodsize helping of green peas from an institutional aluminium trough, the deep rectangular kind that rests in a bain marie, and conveys them into another trough of the same kind, itself filled two thirds of the way to its brim with green peas. Likewise, from the far end of Chalk Farm platform I have seen a tube come in: in the first carriage, resting against the backbolster a woman, resting against her shoulder an uncased cello: in the first vestibule of the final carriage a young man, also keeping a cello upright. Detached, they must have been, from their respective orchestras, and coalescing only in my vantage point, experienced nonetheless. There is one huge vat in the world overbrimming with green peas, one great orchestra overflowing with cellists: when the partitions are lifted momentarily the fact of partitions seems the ridiculous thing: then when the tube pulls in, or the student completes his task to the Master’s satisfaction, they rattle down: and the natural unit of peas goes back to being the serving, each orchestra reconvenes in its own allocations.