Yesterday was a torrid day, right to the end when I was close to ending up on the motorway trying to find a gig venue in west London, and I’ll go into that in detail on Patreon This is NOT a podcast ep 420.
The financial implications of yesterday, immediate and upcoming, have meant I’ve had to change a few things around. I was in two minds about coming to THE café today but after yesterday, and knowing I had an opportunity to work on my script here this lunchtime, I thought, “Eff it.”
Chris De Burgh’s ‘Lady in Red’ was playing as I arrived. Even in ’86, that guy’s mullet was unusual, offset as it was by a curious, straight short fringe. I like to think that back in ’86, I thought the song was crap, but I can’t be sure I did.
The late owner’s son and now owner is here today. He took on an enormous responsibility taking on this place at such a young age, like some King inheriting the throne in his early years. Despite the price rises, he’s kept it ticking over.
The swing saloon door, the right one this time, is busted, but the new hand gel dispenser is working a treat. As for the hand drier, it’s so powerful you’re almost worrying about being sucked in.
At 12:43hrs, Early Jim arrived. We hadn’t seen one another for several months, not since I switched around my arrival times to avoid chatting to the regulars who were distracting me from my work (I was willingly distracted in many instances).
Early Jim gets his moniker because he always looks like he’s about to break into a laugh and it always reminds me that from 1980, when Jim Rosenthal debuted on ITV’s underrated The Big Match as Brian Moore’s sidekick, he always looked like he was about to break into a smirk and my dad referenced this regularly for at least a decade. People at this age can look so much older and frailer when you haven’t seen them for a while, and Early Jim definitely looks diminished. I think this is why I try to see people more frequently these days. I don’t want people putting me in that category.
Early Jim lifts his espresso to his prematurely pouting lips, a curious double-handed style for such a small cup, the little finger of his sinister hand coming off the miniature cup. I still can’t get the ‘hello’ off him and his ear pods have now gone in. As he finishes his espresso, his back turned to me, from the side I see him pull a spectacularly discomfited facial.
Argentina ’78 arrives. The sun is out so of course he’s in his old-school shorts.
“Hello Alan,” he says, despite knowing me for the last 13 years. He has orange socks pulled up high on his shins. He shakes my hands.
“I won’t get too close,” he begins, leaning in. “I have a sore throat.”
Great.
I reach for my hand gel at the earliest opportunity, though the viscosity of this gel means it’s slow dispensing and I’m trying to at least 90 seconds to get it onto my hands without anyone seeing me.
Early Jim, finally giving me the ‘Hello’ as he exits, almost catches me hand gelling.
THE café has filled up.
I’ve had a very unproductive writing session. I need to pull my finger out and rediscover my writing mojo.
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