There is an update to the coffee shop story.
Since that fateful day back in the summer when I ventured out to delight in what I thought was going to be a welcoming new world, many things have happened.
First of all, that particular coffee shop was on one of the routes to the Post Office which is a place that, despite anyone’s best efforts, they find themselves in. Funnily enough, it is a building that I invariably find myself in, when there are long queues. Even funnier, is the fact that after I have waited patiently in line whilst someone decides whether to post something first or second class, whether they want it recorded, special, air or any other delivery method, or buys their car tax, or asks a question about their driving licence application or decides now, that they will enquire about renewing their passport, when I leave there is not a single other person to be seen. It is as though I am destined to wait, patiently, regardless, because I cannot remember, ever, finding myself in that Marie Celeste zone! I am always at the end of the shuffling, smelly, indecisive, fractious peopled queue.
Anyhow, I digress. When in company with my husband we have been bold enough to voice our opinions loudly whilst passing the coffee shop establishment. ‘Up their own arses, pretentious arseholes,’ we intone, with little regard because we are not actively staring in the window making faces and pulling zap signs, though I would have loved to have had the courage to do so. He is happy to sneer and pass judgement because he loves me and does not like it when I am rejected.
One day, we did our customary two people mad expletive laden rant only to find that the second access door, which is normally shut tight, was wide open. Our nastiness would have floated right into madam coffee maker’s domain, landing unbidden somewhere between the pavement and her, and potentially her customers’, earshot. We walked a little faster and giggled like naughty school children, feeling guilty but righteous.
Then some months later the window display which had been so inviting for budding and published authors was replaced with a sad note as to the fact that they had decided, after several years, that their venture had no further life or merit and that it was regrettably shutting its doors. A tiny victory for the incomers who shared a, ‘Well, that’s what you get for being clubby!’ conversation and small sense of satisfaction that the wheel, if slow to turn, does.
But we were naïve. How on earth could that woman be cowed by a mere downturn in the economy? The answer is clear; she is too formidable and self certain to lie down. The heartfelt regret was soon replaced by 70s retro chic and other expensive paraphernalia, the shop transformed almost overnight into a new venture. There is still the offer of a warm drink and a slice of cake to be enjoyed during, after or before looking at what’s on offer.
Since my hyper vigilance has taken hold, I have not been using that route to the Post Office. The reason is complex and involves all sorts of reasons including a small strip of housing where I have been aware of loud music, people effing and blinding in the road and I have also seen the same people that attend the drug clinic a couple of doors down from our own, in that vicinity more often that not. Yes, hypocritical, vis-à-vis the swearing, but sufficient for me to view the 30 metres as holding some danger in traversing the distance. Also, the route means that I have to walk past the tenacious, unscrupulous estate agents who phone me, urging me to make offers on property I do not even like! My inability to deal with their zeal, because of my lack of assertion, has also helped me to trace a different route.
Something must be getting better because yesterday I was able to walk straight past the potential trap of estate agents bounding out - I kid you not - to accost me on the pavement and past the 70s shop, past the potential aggression and marginalized people, to the Post Office. It was raining, cold and already the light was fading to distort my view of the world. The next thing, a dark rimmed glasses, goatee wearing man, of an age far too old to be wearing his obvious necklace beckoned to me, ‘Come in,’ he mouthed.
There seemed to be nowhere to hide so I did as I was told - lack of assertion. He was just saying goodbye to someone as I entered that place. I am absolutely convinced that nothing on earth could have dragged me across the threshold had it still been strung with gingham bunting. There was, however, the small matter of a calabash bowl, hanging on the wall, which encapsulated every bit of Africa I am longing for right now; bright, naïve, unpretentious, inventive, warm, something from nothing, not 70s and vibrant. I have been looking for a salad bowl since February and failing. This was £2.50 and although it needs some modification, to seal the inside, it is exactly what I have been looking for. I did, however, have to take my husband back with me in order to make the final decision - indecisiveness is a hallmark of my character at the moment.
Understandably salad bowls of any measurable proportion were superfluous to requirement and had been culled in a car boot sale. (More of that another day).
Anyhow, Mr Retro 70s dark framed glasses, that reminded me very much of the pair my father wore on his wedding day, late 60s, was rather more chatty than his counterpart. He even encouraged me to look upstairs, where I saw one of my art teacher’s prints. I mentioned that when I came back down and why was I surprised to know that a) his son had dated her daughter and b) that Uber Cool Mrs Married To Mr Retro, Colourful Full Length Mohair Jacket Wearing Severe Framed Glasses Coffee Shop Proprietor (waitress, ha, ha) is often a model for my teacher’s life drawing classes!
I’ve often thought about life modelling as a way to make a bob or two, but I get really worried about how one deals with the indelicate, biological processes that could occur whilst sitting still for two hours. That is before one lays oneself open to being immortalised by variable talent. Perhaps I am vain, as I have worried about facing an honest appraisal of my body full of stretch marks, cellulite and cooper’s droop, which could potentially find itself anywhere. Suffice to say that these thoughts have irked me to the extent of never responding to such adverts, calling for models, even though I imagine it’s a darn sight easier earning money that way, than it is typing up the public’s views on hand dryers, or is it?
I could of course ask UCMMTMR,CFLMJWSFGCSP, but I don’t think I will!
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