When is the potential for metaphor so abundant that it becomes, well, meta-metaphorical? The following was observed this afternoon on 76th between Park and Madison:
Nanny #1, keeper of Squire Jack, a carrot-topped and tow-headed young lad of perhaps 30 months: “Jack wants to go home. He doesn’t want to play.”
Nanny #2, wheeling unidentified tot of approximately the same age: “Fine. He’s tired of Jack hitting him, anyway.”
As they come about with their urban assault strollers to head in opposite directions, I notice that Jack’s sippy cup and other accoutrement are crammed into a Goldman Sachs tote; Nanny #2 is sporting a slightly larger tote from–you guessed it–Merrill Lynch. At least it wasn’t Lehman.
And no, I am nowhere nearly clever enough to make this stuff up.