Limited facial expressions, cricket jumpers and suspiciously coloured Chestnut hair
Thursday AM
I managed to get about 5.5 hours sleep last night, which for me is good going. I was up early again. I had a workout which felt good, but I always feel that a good workout should trigger some facial expressions, grimaces, bordering on the gurns as the effort taxes you. But there was none of that. I could feel the discomfort on the body, like you should with exercising, but I would feel more confident the workout was good if on occasion, some facial would break through. Then again, I remind myself I am a guy of very limited facial expressions.
These vases annoy me.
I took a walk to the library again today before coming into the back-up café. Again, when the melancholy takes over, the library books borrowing escalates. That’s 7 books in 24 hours now borrowed, that didn’t need to be borrowed. Thankfully there were only a dozen or so buggies in the library/picture house this morning, about a tenth of the horrific visual that greeted me twenty-four hours earlier.
I’ve picked up a single table here in the back-up café this morning, albeit curiously positioned, diagonally and with three chairs, which is handy, if like me your OCDs mean you don’t like putting your bags on the floor.
Café Soundscape 12:06HRS
Muscular Madeiran brings over my first decaf latte with that (also) upright walk of his. Physiologically, it’s the kind of movement you see on a boxer, particularly the Mexicans, who will always come and meet you in the centre of the ring and go toe to toe with you. That’s not a style of boxing I enjoy. I love the hit but don’t get hit artists who value having a life long after they’ve retired, guys who trust in the science of boxing to keep them safe even when up against some brawler. Madeiran is wearing a tight white buttoned up short-sleeved shirt – hey, if you’ve got the build, go with the tight tops – and his beard is growing outwards, in slightly wispy fashion, giving him an Amish-like appearance, albeit there is a ‘tache in place.
Across from me, a middle-aged man in a blue V-neck cricket jumper with suspiciously chestnut coloured hair carefully pomaded into place, is having a meeting with a Chinese-American girl half his age. She’s got a great fringe and a sleeveless white top designed, inevitably, to show off the predictable ink on both arms. Is there anyone left who isn’t inked up these days? The tribalism kills me.
They’re talking about a mutual acquaintance.
“Yes, he’s a lovely guy but he’s not in a good place right now,” says Chestnut. “He accidentally burned his house down.”
“He’s got great eyebrows,” replies the young woman.
I’m sure the eyebrows will keep the homeless man going as he tries to piece his life back together in some hostel after a fire.
I’ve been there myself back in 2010. I had great eyebrows too. This was of no help whatsoever in terms of rebuilding my life.
11:53HRS
Upright has arrived in a mauve puffer jacket and immediately switches off a couple of the lights here that, given how welcomingly bright it is out there today, probably weren’t needed. I suspect she might have a word with hubby Nostril Flarer later in the day about such wastage.
12:09HRS
There’s a slight whiff of damp dog in this place today. Why didn’t I pick up on it earlier? Has it been here all morning and maybe I’ve only noticed now? What difference does it make when the smell arrived.
It’s here.
And it’s unpleasant.
Could it be the result of the accumulation of dogs that tend to pop up in this place on a daily basis?
12:15HRS
A man, on a phone call since my arrival 58 minutes ago, has finally finished his call. As someone that doesn’t enjoy phone calls, I’d hate to have been on that call. Was he keeping the person at the other end on the line or was the other person dictating how long the call went on for?
What’s particularly tricky is how to end a call. Arguably, it’s harder than ending a face-to-face meet where you can throw in some gestures, like a warm hand on their arm if you know them well, to prepare the ground for wrapping things up. But on the phone, the chances are there’s going to be three or false dawns before you can bring the call to a merciful close.
12:21HRS
Flarer, coming in from the shops, switches the two lights back on his wife had only turned off some 20 minutes ago when she arrived. This could be the start of a battle for the café’s electricity.
Muscular Madeiran meantime is showcasing a third language at the counter, chatting in Spanish to a couple of Latinas. I suspect this is the kind of guy who will learn a language just to be able to chat to an attractive woman in their native language. Still, at least he’s not monolingual like the average Brit.
I place my order with Flarer for a second decaf at 12:27HRS. It arrives at 12:43HRS. He brings it over himself, nostrils twitching, violently, as if by my ordering a coffee, the foundation of his entire business, has inconvenienced him.
Café Soundscape 12:42HRS - I hate this song.
I speak to my uncle. He’s quite poorly today, he tells me. I can hear it in his voice and keep the call short. Most days now it just feels like he’s faded away just that little bit more. You always know this day will come. And when it comes, to be honest, it does feel like you thought it would. Difficult, sad, it starts to affect everything you do, and you know that there’s not much you can do except be around.
When I told Micky Blue a couple of days ago, the Blue One, who knows my aunt and uncle, and was delivering food to them during the worst of the pandemic when my aunt was isolating alone and my uncle was marooned in hospital with people dying from Covid all around him, told me he’s always thinking how little time his own elderly parents have left now. He actually still lives at home so he’s going to be at the coalface. That’s how this feels for me. Myself, my aunt and uncle, that’s it in terms of family in London so my experience of this is akin to hand-to-hand fighting. The trauma is unlikely to be anywhere approaching the level of what I experienced losing my parents half a lifetime ago, and those experiences have made me tough enough to deal with this, but emotionally, this will still take a toll. My uncle is now at the stage where you note the differences on a daily basis rather than weekly. It’s a little alarming that someone can look dramatically worse 24 hours later. His voice too sounds weaker, and his appetite is significantly less than it was before Christmas.
Café Soundscape 13:06HRS - I like this song.
I stir my second decaf, sinister-handed – usually it’s right-handed in this place. Is that down to where I’m sitting or subconsciously am I just looking to establish some differences between this place and THE café? Again, does any of this even matter?
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