Candyfloss

Summer days always stretched into nights.

When the blazing sun had lowered itself in the west and the scorching afternoons had cooled sufficiently, the square in front of the town hall would resemble a fête. Everyone we knew would be there. And if you didn’t hurry along, it was impossible to find a spot where fluffy clouds of mist from the huge fountain could cool your skin.

My favourite spot though was in front of the candy floss vendor. A huge Arab with a jolly laugh and fat fingers magically coaxed wispy threads out of a spoonful of sugar, while children, like flies, thronged his stall. But if you wanted a ringside view, the trick, I learned, was to hold a piesta in your outstretched hand, as proof of your willingness to buy the next neon pink blob. When finally the last grain of the sugar had disappeared and the pink wool wound nicely around a straw, he would exchange it for a shiny piece of silver.

It was at this precise moment, when the candy was ready that I would quickly close my fist around the coin and wander away. Over time, the candyfloss man realized that I only liked to watch him at work. Perhaps, he also understood my disappointment with the spun sugar. Not only did it always leave me with sticky fingers, there would practically be nothing to bite into.

Lesson of a lifetime.

Pink clouds of sugar
Squished in shiny plastic bags
Mere hollow fluff 

This post is part of #BlogchatterA2Z2022

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