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They’ve been playing a lot of blues in the back-up café since I returned here, which I have to say, I don’t mind. It’s a big improvement on a lot of the Italian rubbish they often play. A recent ear worm has been the Italian version of ‘Gloria’ by Elkie Brooks. I’m assuming the original was hers. Either way, I have no burning desire to know if she did write the original, so I’m going to leave that there.
The back-up café has a new waitress, a tall young black girl, clad in an all-black-uniform which is odd as they don’t wear uniform here. My theory is she has past barista experience and the day one uniform is a carry-over from her last position. She brings over my decaf latte, but leaves it on the tray before the Upright Waitress has a quiet word with her to remove the glass from the tray otherwise, apart from the inconvenience to the customer who’ll be short for space on their table, they’re going to be short of trays. The fact she’s made this schoolboy error damages any credibility my theory that previously she might’ve been a barista holds.
New Waitress also has a good upright posture. Her and upright look like they might be engaged in some centaur-off. New Waitress is the taller, while Upright looks significantly taller than she is because of that magnificent military-bearing-like posture of hers.
New Waitress and Upright seem to have an early rapport going. New says something, Upright laughs. Maybe I shouldn’t read too much into it as Upright has a tendency to laugh at pretty much anything. You could get overconfident with her laughing at everything you say and you start thinking you’re a lot funnier than you are. You see it on the stand-up circuit. I’m always suspicious of the punter that laughs at every line.
It turns out New is at uni. Upright is doing a good job of putting her at ease and asking her what her long-term plans are. At New’s age, I think mine was just to have my own bed, never mind bedroom. New informs Upright that she can walk to the back-up café if the bus strikes that have crippled this part of south London through the winter return. What else? Well, her mum doesn’t like her handwriting. She has an adopted sister. That gets me thinking, is her mum her ‘birth mother’? Is she the adopted sister or is the sister the adopted one? How can I hear all this from ten metres away and yet after 15 years of audio editing, someone can say something from a metre away and I have trouble hearing them?
If Upright and Nostril Flarer are giving New the lowdown on their customers, they won’t waste too much time with me. Decaf lattes, two, every time he’s in here. Three if he’s cashing in on his loyalty card. Minimal tip. Smiles occasionally. Can get ratty if the second latte is slow to be delivered. One of the few customers to bring his empty glass over as he leaves. It’s a decent summary.
New is already leaving. So, I’m guessing she’s off to uni. It’s only 10.39hrs and this place opens at 09.30hrs so maybe it was a simple hour-long trial to see how she found things. I wish for the sake of today’s post, someone would confirm all these details with me. I’d just like to see how accurate, or inaccurate, my reading of the situation has been.
Upright asks if New wants a coffee to go.
“Actually, I will,” says New.
“You want to try and make it yourself?” Asks Upright.
“Okay.”
I can’t help feeling the scene currently playing out should have some music bed, some soft focus close up as New starts making her first ever coffee and the two waitresses beginning forging a friendship.
Back to my theories though. I noticed this morning that Upright and Nostril Flarer speak English to each other, even though I’m certain they’re a couple. They’re either a couple or very good friends. I’m leaning towards them being one of those couples that are actually great friends too, and that’s not often the case. I don’t know too many of those and I certainly never experienced that with any of my relationships. I suspect my OCDs played a part in that.
A couple of months ago, Upright had told me that she’s learning Italian and I thought it was to help her work here as the majority of the staff are Italian, but the fact is, unlike THE café, the clientele here isn’t a Mediterranean one, so in terms of needing the language to converse with some customers, I don’t think it's necessary. My hunch is she is learning Italian because she’s in a relationship with Nostril Flarer. They make for a nice couple though such is the level of their amity that any friends are likely to find themselves sidelined until/if any of that early ardour wears off.
I had one ex-girlfriend whose parents were the greatest of friends to the extent that anyone else was almost excluded. That level of friendship, I don’t know if that would ever have been for me.
Sidenote: being into dermatology, I still feel the reason I stayed with that girl for longer than we should’ve been together was because I was fascinated by the enormous number of skin tags her dad had in both his arm pits. The reason these were often visible is because her parents lived on the Spanish coast so having frequent holidays (before my terror of flying really set in), I often had an opportunity to see my prospective father-in-law topless on the beach.
I always wondered why he never had these tags removed? Did his wife never say anything? She was a lovely lady, very easy going, devoted to him, but surely, even if you loved someone, you’d push them to have so many skin tags removed. I kid you not, there must’ve been, both arm pits combined, something like 70+ tags. Now granted, they were hidden away. Had they been, say, on the torso, they would’ve always been visible. They would’ve impacted on their lovemaking for instance. The six kids they had, might’ve instead just been half the number.
Warming to my theme here, surely, even in the bedroom, those armpits would’ve been exposed at times, perhaps in some positional changeover. Unless they liked to dim the lights? Given these growths can be easily removed – in his case, he would’ve required several sessions of cryotherapy – why did he never get them frozen off? If the option is there, why would you choose to live your life with these unsightly growths?
It did make me worry that the tags might be hereditary and in looking into his armpits, I was glimpsing my own future with his daughter. I remember promising myself that if that were the case, as soon as it progressed beyond one tag, I would pressure her to see her GP. I remember that there were occasions in the bedroom were I deliberately steered things towards a position where I could raise her arms just so I could get a closer look at those arm pits to see if any tags were seeding.
Her dad and I got on brilliantly and in ruining that relationship, I wrecked what had been a strong friendship with him, one that had, I should add, survived me walking in on him in the loo. Why he never locked the door or at least had the light on is beyond me. I was almost upon the bowl, facing it, unzipping, when I saw his faint silhouette seated on the loo. It was one of those moments, if there is reincarnation, that I hope never features in some flashback to a previous life.
When his daughter and I eventually spit up – it was a seriously messy break up – I hope he at least considered the possibility that him not closing the loo door that day in Spain perhaps played a part in that relationship meltdown.
It’s 11:07hrs now.
The Italian regulars whose friend is one of the chefs come in with their little black dog. I have no idea what breed it is. It’s happy, I’m guessing, as it’s wagging its tail. If I was a dog, unless my canine alter-ego had a different disposition, I suspect I wouldn’t be much of a tail wager.
Both the purple-clad, papal-looking Chef and Nostril Flarer stop to stroke it. As always, I’m certain at no point will either pause to wash their hands before serving customers. Indeed, moments later, as I type this, Nostril Flarer is happily slicing some cake, nudging it with his right thumb as it briefly threatens to come off the too-small plate.
If Flarer and Upright are an item, I like to think one of them in the relationship would be observant enough on the hygiene front to prompt the other to wash their hands after stroking an animal in an eatery that shouldn’t even be in the establishment. If I ran a place, there’d be a sign on the door in UPPER CASING, 36 Font, Bookman Old Style: “NO ANIMALS”.
I had to take my first tall glass to the counter to prompt Nostril Flarer for my second decaf latte. He was on his phone. It continues to frustrate me that the staff here just don’t glance at the tables often enough to see who needs serving. Maybe it’s the old goalkeeper in me, looking to my left and right, across my line, seeing what’s in front of me, what’s behind. I would make a phenomenal waiter, apart from the fact I’m clumsy. There would be many breakages, but that aside, I’d be a good waiter. Maybe, to address that clumsiness, I’d simply be allowed to observe and direct from the bar. “Yeah, Table 4 needs a latte. Table 3, another espresso.”
The second latte arrives with a little too much spume. Apart from requiring me to have a napkin to dab my lips after the early sips (thankfully I travel with my own tissues), the problem with the excessive froth is that unlike THE café, you don’t get a tall spoon in this place, so I’m having to stir through the foam with a normal-sized spoon. It’s not ideal.
The morning has been fairly productive. The knee is again throbbing as I sit here but I’ve actually enjoyed posting this.
I’ve got some light rehearsals this afternoon scheduled for tonight’s Kings cross gig, learning the butchered new material to condense into a 5. The discipline is good but it’s probably not the best presentation of the new material. As things stand, it’s my only spot this week. Unless I pick something up on the same day, it’s likely to remain the case but with the coming weeks being very busy stand-up wise, that may be no bad thing.
Directly opposite me, an older white woman in an emerald green top arrives late for a meeting with a younger woman, also white, and a fading sun tan hinting at a recent holiday, in a pink beany, black and white striped top and dungarees that bring to mind early 90s Henry in ‘neighbours’ era. I finally passed my GCSEs at the third time of asking in dungarees.
Pretty much every other guy was wearing dungarees that summer, one strap off. Oh, to be young and a twat again. If only we were wise enough at the time to savour our youth, we might’ve enjoyed ourselves even more.
There’s a slight minestrone-taste to this foam-heavy second latte.
Am I imagining it?
Is this in some way connected to the earlier dog-stroking?
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