Russian roulette, Roanoke and the great American railway

I drive to Roanoke on Saturday, to meet my Mum and my sister and my nephew and our friend Kerry, in a cafe called The Parker Grace Tea Room. I order a chicken salad puff, momentarily forgetting that chicken salad, in the midwest, is a creamy, mayonnaisey concoction, but devouring it nonetheless, squashed between two cute, heart-shaped pieces of puff pastry.

It’s a cute place.

While we sit there, enjoying our lunch, a couple arrives in 1920s costume, both clad head to toe in shades of beige, white and caramel; her, a full-length dress, he, a pair of high-waisted slacks with what they call suspenders, here, but I always have always known as braces. They smile, beatifically, at us all, as if to say, “don’t we just look fine”, in, of course, a southern drawl.

I, for what it’s worth, think they look ridiculous, but I am not a fan of costumery, as a general rule. Although, I guess, if they’d been wearing dinosaur suits, that would have been a different story.