I found an independent café last week (more tea shop than anything else) and I am in love with it already. It is tucked between a jewellers and a restaurant facing a village green, it has proper table-cloths and lady-like chairs, and even better you can get 2 coffees and a cupcake for £3. This will not break the bank at all (since it was broken a while ago) so I think I can definitely afford to go there once a week and indulge my writer fantasies.
It is a bit of a stomp to get there, mind you – fifty minutes when wearing trainers, no doubt six hours if wearing heels. This is why I don’t usually wear heels – I walk so much that there’s no point to them (ahem) - I’d be so slow I may as well go backwards. Besides, something strange happens to the world if I even elevate myself by a mere inch, the gravity is definitely different at those lofty heights.
So a trainer’d stroll in the November sunshine was just the ticket for today, and was a nice reward for yesterday, when I spent all day on job websites. I have two more Applications of Joy to knuckle down to, but that is for tomorrow. Today was for me.
I like observing how the world behaves in cafes. Last week there was a mum and her young daughter, and I couldn’t help get interested in them, as the mother had said ‘no cakes’ as they walked in. Bearing in mind that this is possibly the goo-iest, chocolate-ist, and Famous Five-ish like tea shop in the world, why on earth would you bring your child to it and then say they couldn’t have any cakes? The reason apparently was because ‘they were having dinner later’ – a poor excuse if you ask me. Tea shops are for eating gooey things and for feeling sick and spoiling appetites, not for boring old thoughts of the pork chop to come.
Today a man had come in purely to speak on his mobile phone, loudly and at length about his late invoice. Don’t panic world, he arranged to speak to HSBC in the morning about his mortgage, so all is well – phew! I was so relieved for him. Except apparently he was meeting Ian at the A10 roundabout, as they are all going up west later to get hammered, only if Dave is up for it, of course. The problem was it was Dave’s daughter’s birthday, so maybe not… oh how I worried. I debated for ages whether I should turn around and join in, as clearly he was including me in his conversation, but thankfully Mr Irritating left to the icy chill of my glare.
Editing is going well – I am still revising chapter three, and it really does work better in a café. Me and the novel are going through a love-hate relationship at the moment – sometimes I like it and want to dance nose-to-the-sky in the manner of Snoopy as I love it so much. Sometimes I hate it and think it sounds like something Adrian Mole would have sent post-haste to the BBC (Adrian Mole being Sue Townsend’s fictional pretentious wannabe writer). In-between these two moods is a sort of stubborn perseverance, and a cat. Cats can be found in the middle of everything in life, so it seems.