He would scratch his head at a lot of things, our friend the visitor from another planet. He would wander around constantly perplexed at some of the bizarre spectacles on display. None would illicit more confusion though than the priceless Hell’s Kitchen with Gordon Ramsay at the helm.
On a recent instalment Gordon was informed that some chicken had been overcooked. To describe Gordon’s reaction as demonic would be a good start. You would then be forced to go on to use words such as apocalyptic, cataclysmic. The stranger would look on bewildered and wonder what pioneering process, what phenomenon on the outermost frontier of scientific endeavour was being attempted which could provoke such emotional investment. Were they putting the atom back together, or translocating matter? He would gaze in awe at the flame haired maestro at the centre of it and wonder if he was the leader of our civilisation, a kind of deity. This must be the scientific nerve centre of humanity, he might think, with all manner of experiments being conducted and radical new hypotheses being put to the test, elements being fused and dismantled in gleaming circular vessels over infinite heat sources. What was he willing his minions to accomplish, what monumental project was afoot? What attempt to alter the galactic equilibrium was he exhorting his subjects to with such urgency, such seemingly insatiable desire? Were they against the clock, had imminent Armageddon been put in train by an unseen enemy and these were the chosen ones in their curious chrome laboratory, the crack squad tasked with finding a way to head it off? Had they only minutes in which to unearth the impossibly complex encrypted algorithm which would save the planet?
And then it would arrive, the plate of rice with a few bits of parsley on it or a lump of ice cream. And the stranger would shake and scratch his head simultaneously and think how he’d hate to see the hoor trying to lay a patio, or put up a few shelves in the spare room.
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