Separate mealtimes
...And a man not pushed to elaborate on his claim he's had one of the best days of his life
I got to the back-up café at 15:37hrs, later than anticipated owing to recording #403 (see previous post). Bizarro World Me was at his usual spot at the back of the café, dressed in all black as usual, hogging the table like me during my peak years at the toilet table, pre-pandemic, in THE café.
I wasn’t impressed with the opening decaf, which was just warm. I elected not to ask for a side jug of hot milk as I won’t be here past 18:00hrs today, given my late arrival, so I can afford to write off an underwhelming coffee. Also, having built a rapport with Flarer, the two of us addressing ourselves by our name now, I’d rather not risk a return to the previously glacial 8 months by making a request that will be perceived as a complaint.
Instead, I covered up the decaf with my small physical 2023 gig diary, which, having been on the table here, meant I also placed an anti- bacterial wipe on standby to wipe the rim of the glass down before lip placement.
A bespectacled woman, librarian-looking, and I don’t say that with disdain, I think it’s a good look, sits at the table opposite me and orders some food. I am quite awkward when it comes to eating. I think I mentioned that in today’s audio. If I’d been her, I would’ve sat facing the other way, back turned, so I could masticate without the pressure of someone seeing me.
My dad never liked anyone watching him eat, and from 1980, we were never allowed to eat with him. So, there were two separate meal times. My sibling and I would have our meals, my mum occasionally would eat with us, but more often than not, she’d eat on her own and my dad tended to eat late following his after-work run. He was a phenomenal runner about thirty years before run1kerring became a thing. Actually, thinking about it, that’s three separate mealtimes. Basically, we never ate together as a family after 1980, apart from possibly Good Friday 1984 in Clapham when we went for lunch in some new fish restaurant that had opened on Clapham High Street, about 15 years before Clapham went full on wank, whose name escapes me right now, but I think there was a chain of them in that period.
I’m losing my thread right now. There are three infants running around, one celebrating their birthday. They’re now talking to Librarian Woman opposite me who fell upon her food with relish.
A regular walks in.
“How was your day?” asks Upright of the always very chatty guy.
“I’ve had one of the best days of my life,” he replies.
There’s nothing back from Upright.
I’m not sure if something’s been lost in translation. Her English is always good. Maybe she’s been distracted by the man’s newly shaven skull – it’s looking like a 1, with a scar visible on the left of the skull. But either way, a reply like that surely merits some further exploration. The man finds himself a table, no doubt disappointed he hasn’t been given the opportunity to elaborate on why today’s been so memorable.
A couple of minutes later, Flarer saves the day, showing observation skills often lacking when it comes to serving me. He asks the man if he’s had a haircut, when clearly, he has, but it opens up the space for a conversation.
The man excitedly replies, rising from his chair, and walking back halfway to the bar, that he did it himself. I’m in no doubt he lives on his own. I detect similar behaviour to mine. That’s what living on your own does to you. Someone talks to you, you can get a little too excited.
It’s not been the most productive session in here.
Café Soundscape 17:29hrs
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