Located in my usual cafe, I’m sat at a table to the rear of the dining area, feeling hungover, waiting for my English fried breakfast to be served. In this fogged state of mind, I am unable to maintain the necessary chemical synaptic connection between thought and action. With the signals blinking on and off, my eyelids drawn half-down works best for now. Continue reading “vapid escalation”
“Basically,” Sue said to Hannah, “computer simulation theory is split into three separate suppositions.”
Hannah, sitting opposite Sue, stared into a space, her attention drifting. A gingham patterned tablecloth, wooden chair and contrasting coloured floor tiles blurred together, swirling in a clockwise direction. Taking hold of the teaspoon in her coffee cup, she stirred the brown milky liquid in an anticlockwise direction, hoping to counteract the effect. When this failed she blinked a few times, restoring focus and easing the sensation of soreness in the corners of her eyes.
Continue reading “more than two”
Utilising the marvels of interweb technology, the following is the transcript of my recent radio show broadcast where I am in interview with Jan Futchinelle, l’enfant terrible investigative reporter creating a name for himself in the modern medieval city of Oxford and well beyond these county lines. For anyone out there who calls living under a stone home, Jan has spent the last few weeks talking up the #roadsituation.
I invited him onto the show, to learn a bit more about both the story and the man. Judging by the several emails received following broadcast, audience feedback suggests public opinion sits firmly behind the journalist.
Without further ado, here!
“A-nd welcome back after the news, you’re tuned into Brinkinfield’s Fried Breakfast on Radio OX72FM. If you’re travelling into Oxford city today, I have been passed some traffic info for you to take heed of. The lights are out at the Wolverine roundabout, causing some cavalier cavorting by road-users with the area classified as immediately dangerous for all nearby pedestrians. We’ve also just received news of the Botter’s Road bridge down to one lane, cordoned off by police while frogmen search the canal. This follows the report of a rather large man falling from the bridge during yesterday’s rush hour. Police are appealing for witnesses.
“Right, back to business. As listeners, you may be interested in my next guest on this morning’s show Jan Futchinelle, who’s writings on the road situation has attracted stacks of attention over the last month or so.
“Welcome Jan, I am glad for us to meet.”
“Thank you and thanks for asking me onto your show.”
“It’s a pleasure Jan, I feel we share many of the same ideas. Which is why I’ve asked you to come on and discuss what has become known as, the road situation in Oxford.”
“Yes, well, of course it’s not only effecting Oxford. Towns, villages, hamlets and cities all over the country are suffering in the same way as here.”
“Right, but here in Oxford, this is where you live and what you know and what you see, am I right Jan?”
“Oh, a little bit of French there Jan!”
“I speak 7 languages, French, Swiss, Italian, German, Austrian, a little Scandinavian.”
“I imagine it must come in handy from time to time.”
“Very occasionally, yes.”
“So Jan, what’s it all about, this road situation you’ve been writing of for the last few weeks?”
“Well, it’s been more like a year now. It breaks down into three inter-linked component parts: potholes, congestion and road-user behaviour.”
“Ok, briefly take me through them.”
“Well, has it occurred to anyone listening the idea of there existing a more suitable product for surfacing roads than the current materials, with all the technology we have at our disposal today?”
“Yes Jan, it has occurred to me before. There’s got to be, surely!”
“It’s an absolute certainty. Look at our present situation, whatever the weather conditions the roads crumble, crack and sink. The surfaces break down, unable to take the extremes of cold, warmth and wetness our seasons produce. The current materials used simply aren’t fit for purpose.”
“Certainly Jan, the road I travel in on each day provides a dreadfully bumpy ride, physically lifting me off my seat. I find myself weaving around the road to avoid the worst potholes.”
“And it is unsafe, the potential for accidents doesn’t require much imagination.”
“Agreed, I worry about my suspension and wheel axles too. I don’t believe cars are made to withstand this kind of exposure. What material do you believe would do a better job for surfacing roads?”
“Almost anything, but my favourites are re-cycled rubber from tires and re-cycled plastic. At a stroke, the inadequacies of the current recycling system we have, would be solved. There’d even be money in dredging the oceans to remove the vast tracts of discarded plastic floating around, which endanger sea life. The technology is here, the raw material is close to being free, it is a no-brainer.”
“Okay, we’re going to take a break for a tune by the Velvet Underground, Sister Ray, picked to help ease your journey into work this morning. When we come back, I’ll be reading out some recipes you’ve tweeted in, specially themed to this morning’s interview. Then we’ll talk more with Jan, on the subject of Oxford’s road situation.”
“A-nd, as we fade that out, you’re listening to Brinkinfield’s Fried Breakfast on Radio OX72FM where I’m in conversation with Jan Futchinelle, journalist, writer and all round good egg.”
“That’s a long track, Sister Ray.”
“Indeed it is Jan. Let-me-see, it comes in at 17 minutes 28 seconds… I hope no one minded me talking over the last 12 seconds as it played out.
“Now Jan, where were we?”
“Christ-alive, I’ve forgotten. Your listeners won’t know this, but during the musical interlude I got a quick trim at the barber shop located underneath the studios here.”
“Just so listeners know, Jan is sporting a clippered haircut – what would that be Jan, a zero on the number?”
“Yes, that’s right, zero.”
“But it looks like Francesco trimmed and conditioned your beard too.”
“Yes, well we could hear the Sister Ray track coming through the ceiling, and both being familiar with the song, we worked out we had enough time.”
“And you brought me back up a latte too, thank you Jan. Right, where were we? Oh, I am getting a voice in my ear saying we have enough time for some listener’s themed recipes and then we’ll go to the news.”
“I could hear that voice in your ear. It sounded like a busy bumble bee inside the flower of a daffodil. Can I just quickly mention about road tax?”
” – Not just yet Jan.”
” – About how less than 25% of the road tax goes on road maintenance?”
” – Later Jan. Okay, with the time now at exactly… six fifty seven, let’s go through some of the recipe ideas our listeners have tweeted in. Right, here’s one from Balthazar, thank you ma’am. Hm, what have we here? It looks like a hotdog from the photo – oh I see, the hotdog has cocktail sticks pinning cherry tomatoes and slices of cucumber into the side of the bread finger roll to look like car wheels. Yes, very good. And the wiggly line of mustard, that could be like a go faster stripe down the centre.”
“Normally, go-faster stripes are displayed along both sides of a vehicle rather than running down the centre.”
“True Jan, yes, but the mustard would just run and look messy I don’t doubt.”
“Depends on the mustard.”
“And what’s this we have from… Ge-ronimo…Cheeks, I think I have that right, okay let’s see, th-is, loo-ks like… oh, okay, it’s a slice of apple, with four grapes. Again, wooden cocktail sticks used as the axles. Right, I can definitely see a car theme developing here – keep them coming in. Okay, here comes the latest news and weather and we’ll be back right after this.”
“And that’s the sublime sound of Jason Lytle, formerly of the band Grandaddy, with a tune to melt your heart and make your eyes cry. In case you’ve just joined us, I am here with journalist and campaigner Jan Futchinelle, to talk about the Oxford road situation.
“Jan, we’ve talked about the road surfaces and what can be done about them.”
“Yes we have.”
“And I believe your campaigning initially came to my attention after you wrote an article entitled car ban or carbon? about the city council’s plan to exclude cars from Oxford. I also understand you have something to say about road-users, too.”
“Correct. Drivers of vehicles, cyclists and pedestrians sometimes too.”
“So what’s your beef, Jan?”
“That’s an unusual verb… but anyway, way back in the 20th century in the very early nineteen thirties, the Ministry of Transport published an 18 page booklet called the Highway Code.”
“And we’re still using it?”
“It’s been revised many times.”
“How many times Jan?”
“Regularly. The point is, the booklet contains guidance and rules about driving. Every learner driver knows that questions about the Highway Code form part of the test to acquire a full driving license.”
“Oh yes, I remember, all that stuff about stopping distances?”
“Yes and much more. Now, some of the rules explained are compulsory, whilst others are recommendations.”
“Like giving way to traffic on the right at roundabouts?”
“Correct, that’ll be a must-do rule. If you are brought to a British courtroom on a traffic violation, the Highway Code may – and probably will be referenced in a case against you.”
“I’m with you. So, what’s your point Jan?”
“My point is, the rules are pretty basic.”
“If you are sat at a junction to a main road, you give way to the traffic both ways, until the road is clear and safe to pull onto.”
“Seems like common sense there Jan.”
“But how many times have your listeners seen car drivers edge out onto main roads, as if they are entitled to some kind of special exemption from the rules?”
“Well, I’ve certainly seen this, whether they are turning left or right, or cutting across traffic to come off the main road. Often people in big four-by-fours, but not exclusively.”
“Indeed. And people blithely wave them on without consideration of possible consequences. Have you seen this happen – when a cyclist or pedestrian is endangered as a car turns? Have you seen the confusion being waved-on creates when there are two or more cars vying to take advantage of a situation? It’s madness. People, I say, just drive by the rules! That’s all I ask. Life would be so much easier.”
“Life would be better.”
“Life would be safer.”
“And that’s what really counts Jan. I am afraid we have run out of time, thank you so much for coming onto the show.”
“My pleasure. Lastly can I just say ‘cyclists, use lights day and night‘ and also mention I am giving a talk later this afternoon at Holywell’s Bookshop, inviting a Q&A session immediately afterwards.”
“Indeed Jan you can, and I believe you just have. We have time for one more themed recipe and okay, let’s see what we have here and from whom…”
“It’s a banana and are those four cherries, run through with a cocktail stick?”
“Yes I think you’re right Jan. Our thanks to justcantgetenuff for tweeting that one in. This next song is regularly requested by listeners of the show, after which we’ll go to the news and weather with Randolph Spencer. But first, here’s the Palace Brothers, with Merida …
The waitress hadn’t noticed him, sat in the corner at the back of the dining area. Knowing she had an interest in literature, Frankie mentioned him as he took the food order for a cooked breakfast, about how the man is a writer. She’d not heard of him before, the name didn’t ring a bell.
Mia felt he had a certain look about him, one which drew pity, sat alone by himself. “He rarely enters with a dining partner.” The cook said, “I’m certain he’s in here listening to the conversations of others, as material for his writing.”
Watching him, while waiting for the order to be prepared, she noticed his apparent discomfort. How he played around with the cutlery, constantly re-positioning the knife and fork, making minute adjustments to their placement on the table. By the time he had finished setting out the salt pot, pepper mill, coffee cup and a glass of water, the table resembled a chess board. How he thinks I am going to serve his plate to him without a mishap, I don’t know! Mia thought, I wish he would stop messing around. She found all his fussiness irritating.
Shortly, Frankie returned, whistling as he arrived from the kitchen carrying a plate of food. Handing it over, he nodded in the direction of the writer. “Look Mia,” he said, “it’s not so busy now, sit down and chat with him, he’s a regular, we want to keep our customers happy.” An encouraging smile spread across his handsome face. “Go show him he’s loved.”
“Okay Frankie, whatever you say.”
“And keep your thumb off the side of the plate and out of the beans,” Frankie whispered, “you see he’s particular about presentation.” Mia sank her chin into her neck and arched her eyebrows, balancing the plate elegantly atop her finger tips.
Sat at the table, the writer strokes his beard. He appears restless and proceeds to remove the round-framed spectacles from the bridge of his nose, folding and placing them onto the table. Immediately, he picks them back up and slides them into his shirt pocket. He senses the imminent arrival of breakfast. As is the tradition in the cafe, Mia calls out the order number and right on cue, the writer meekly raises his hand, as if excusing himself from a school classroom. She shows him a brief, half-smile in acknowledgement and walks over, deftly weaving around the chairs and tables. Why did he have to sit right at the back when there are several empty tables, located near the service counter? She wondered.
Mia had got used to men staring and mentally undressing her, while at work. She wouldn’t act upon it, but occasionally, she enjoyed the experience – if she fancied the guy. This man looked old enough to be her father and observed in a lustful way by him, made her feel uncomfortable. The young waitress felt a mild sense of disgust when she noticed his tongue slip out and run across the front of his lips, as she approached. She’d have preferred to wipe down tables, only Frankie had said for her to sit down and make conversation.
“Good morning!” she said, gingerly lowering the plate into place and sitting down in front of the writer. Surprised, the man spluttered something unintelligible and in the confusion knocked over the salt-cellar, spilling most of its contents across the table and onto Mia’s lap. “Oops! It’s alright sir, I’ll clear it up!” Again, she felt his intense stare as she cleaned up the spilt salt and wiped the grains from her hands down the front of her apron.
“I am dreadfully sorry Miss.” His cheeks flushed red. “I am so clumsy, please accept my apologies.” To Mia’s embarrassment, her tummy gave out loud a gurgle. Earlier this morning at home, she’d managed a coffee and a giant-sized maple syrup pancake. Having already completed the breakfast rush and countless circuits inside the cafe, pangs of hunger had started making their presence known.
While the writer’s normal colour had returned, Mia’s cheeks reddened as she took her turn to apologise. “Oh dear! I’m sorry about that.”
“Are you hungry?” He asked.
Yes I am, she thought. “Well, a little, I skipped breakfast today,” she lied, “never a good idea.”
“Look, please, have some of my food, here.” He pushed the plate a few millimetres across the table towards her.
“No, I couldn’t, that’s kind sir, but it’s your breakfast.”
“I insist, try some of my succulent sausage – and the hash browns. They are cooked to perfection and bound to satisfy a rumbling stomach.”
Tempted, Mia stared down the length of a Lincolnshire sausage, which the writer held aloft on a fork. Then, before she could take a bite, the sausage disappeared from view as he dipped it into a neat whirl of sauce, positioned on the side of the plate.
With sauce dripping from one end, the sausage returned level to her mouth. “Go on, eat it, you know you want to.” The writer’s smile twitched nervously, as if his facial expressions were not under his full control. Smiling, Mia decided to take up the offer and took a bite, followed by several more mouthfuls, until she’d eaten all of it.
Feeling guilt about having taken his whole sausage, she felt obliged to continue with some polite conversation. Wiping sauce from around her lips with a thumb, she said “Frankie mentioned you are a writer and a celebrity in this town. Is that right?”
“I’m not sure about the celebrity bit.” He replied, dabbing at a bead of sweat running down his forehead with a paper serviette. “But yes, I am a writer.”
“What sort of stories do you write?” She asked.
“My latest stories form part of a series, based upon obsessive compulsive behaviour.”
“That’s a coincidence,” she tells him, “I have my own story about an OCD episode in my life. Perhaps you’d like to hear it?” His eyes widened as he nodded his head enthusiastically.
“Yes, yes, please tell me.”
“Don’t let the rest of your breakfast go cold.” Mia says, pointing at his plate. “You eat, and I’ll speak.”
As the writer takes a noisy slurp of coffee, Mia begins. “It happened two years ago, not along after I’d arrived here from Sicily. The employment situation back home isn’t good, so having studied English the previous year, along with financial support from my family, I moved here. I found a modest one-bedroom flat to rent and set about looking for suitable employment. I soon discovered it’s not so great for work here either, is it?” Chewing on fried tomato and mushrooms, he held a hand up before his mouth and gave a muffled reply. With an uncertain smile, Mia continued. “Despite the generosity of my family, funds were running out and life had become stressful. My self-confidence drained away and I harboured doubts concerning my original decision to come here.” Swallowing, the writer made sympathetic gestures with his hands and nodded his head to express understanding.
Mia observed how difficult he found maintaining eye-contact. His eyes wandered and she noticed his focus return several times to the area between her neck and the edge of the table separating them. “Finally, I got a job waitressing at a cafe on the north side of the city, run by a Danish man. He was a hard taskmaster, paying little above the minimum wage. All I achieved was to add more stress and exhaustion into my life. At this point, something changed.” Hearing her remark, the writer’s line of sight moved swiftly upwards to her eyes, giving her his full attention.
“One morning, walking to the bus stop, I couldn’t remember turning the bathroom tap off. I recall the sensation, best described as a wave of fear passing through me.” A shiver went through Mia as she hooked a loose strand of dark brown hair behind her ear. “Naturally, fearing the consequences of a tap left running, I felt compelled to return to the flat. Upon reaching the bathroom, I found both taps closed with nothing more than a drip hanging off one of the spouts.” Her hands opened up and she shrugged her shoulders. “Now this will sound stupid to you, but when I reached the end of the street a second time, I wondered if maybe it was the bath tap left running and not the sink. I returned to the flat, to find the bath taps and also the kitchen taps, all safely turned off. With a sense of relief, I set out for work once again.
“Throughout the day, I felt uncomfortable. I wished I had gone back through each of the rooms, checking all the taps one by one before leaving. By the time my shift ended anxiety had taken hold, as I willed the bus to hurry along on the homeward journey. I actually ran down the street in a panic, back to my flat. Inside, I only calmed down once I’d tried all the taps and made sure they were closed off properly, by tightening each one.”
“And this happened again, the following day?” The writer asked.
“And the day after that and throughout the whole week. It simply continued and got worse.” Mia stared across the table at the half empty salt-cellar, with a look of dejection across her face. “The number of times I had to return and check increased. Frequently, I’d just stepped outside the front door and then had to rush back inside. On other occasions I returned all the way back from work, making up an excuse to the boss.”
“It sounds like your day-to-day life had become very difficult.”
“Oh this was just the beginning. By the end of the same month, I believed I’d left the oven on, the gas rings, lights, heating, windows open, refrigerator door open and the frontdoor unlocked! I had to get up earlier and earlier in the mornings, to account for the time it would take to complete the multiple numbers of checks and return trips.”
“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.” The writer said, pausing briefly before placing a forkful of hash browns and baked beans into his mouth.
“It became exhausting and ultimately, I avoided going out unless absolutely necessary.” Mia watched him as he chewed on his food, she had begun to warm to him a little. He’d sat there listening attentively and without judgement. She sensed a caring disposition in the him, which she hadn’t read earlier. First impressions, she thought, be wary, of first impressions. The man sat opposite her, who up to this point had been systematically working his way around the plate, looked directly into Mia’s eyes.
“You’re okay now?”
“Yes, I am.”
“How did you pull out of the nosedive?”
“Well, I’d become friends with another waitress at the cafe and she’d noticed how things were getting difficult for me. The truth is, the obsessive behaviour had crept into my work.” The cafe door opening for the fifth time in three minutes, momentarily distracted Mia’s attention. A number of customers had arrived, looking to get in and settled before the lunchtime rush. While mostly made up of individual stragglers, a group of several old men gathered around two tables lined up with each other. They chatted about local news, with one man critical of the new shopping centre project, now nearing completion.
“It’s been badly planned, badly designed and Oxford, doesn’t, need it!” He declared.
The writer brought Mia’s attention back to their conversation with a question. “How so?”
“Nothing too serious, re-checking customer’s food orders and change from the till, re-washing clean cutlery. In comparison to home-life, light relief I’d say!”
“How did the waitress help you?”
“She recommended a therapist who made home-visits, which suited my situation perfectly. A friend of hers, she’d told me, had seen him for just three months and from what she knew, he sounded pretty good.”
“So you called him up, how did he fix you?”
“Well, he arrived, a polite man in his forties, quietly confident, tall, bearded and stylishly dressed. We talked, he carefully listened. Both calm and relaxed in his presence, I felt an immediate connection. Unusual don’t you think, when meeting someone for the first time?”
Does she feel a connection with me? The writer wondered. He’d begun constructing a carefully worded question to ask her and find out, when Frankie shouted over. “Okay Topolina, cinque minuti!” Standing at the service counter where a small queue had formed, the cook smiled and raised his hand, fingers splayed wide.
ì, certo Frankie!” Mia replied, turning her head and smiling back at him. “For the first session, I did most of the talking, I told him everything I have told you. He listened attentively, rarely interrupting except when needing clarification. At the end of the hour, he said he understood life felt difficult and assured me we would work this through. When I look back, just him saying this made me feel a little better.”
“So he simply talked you out of the obsessiveness?” The writer asked, unable to conceal a sardonic tone, after ruminating over the earlier question of connection. “Did you talk all about your childhood and upbringing?”
“No, not at all. It surprised me, his approach was entirely practical. We could discuss my childhood for six months he’d said, that this may prove helpful and serve a purpose. Alternatively, we could strategise and act to resolve the immediate malady. Out of our discussions during sessions one and two, he devised and we agreed a plan to implement. Using my phone’s camera in the mornings before leaving for work, I photographed each set of taps, the gas rings, oven controls, windows, doors and light fixtures. Anything I’d ever fretted about. The photos showed everything turned off, or properly closed.” As she spoke, Mia had been pretending to take photographs with an imaginary phone in her hand. She finished by taking a close up photo of the writer’s face.
“How did taking photos help?
“Okay, the act of doing this helped put my mind at ease, the same as running around the flat carrying out a visual check. I noticed the difference shortly after I’d set off to catch a bus. On the first morning waiting at the bus stop, I felt a familiar flutter of uncertainty.” Involuntarily, the writer glanced at the waitress’ shapely chest, where her hand now rested. He could feel his cheeks begin to flush, as they were prone to do. Appearing not to notice, Mia continued with her explanation. “I took out my phone and scrolled through the pictures I’d taken and felt reassured. I continued to do this for the first week, looking at the photos a few times over the course of a day, whenever I needed to.”
“That’s still quite some routine isn’t it? Taking photos every morning all around your flat.”
“It is, you are right. But it bought me an extra hour in bed compared to before and over time, I began not needing to look at the photos during the day. Just knowing they were there on my phone, seemed sufficient. Soon, I felt more normal, like my old self. Calmness returned into my life, I slept better and adopted a healthier diet.”
“And were you keeping up with the counselling sessions?”
“Yes, I did. In the sessions we explored all these new experiences and the counsellor gave me encouragement and praised my progress. By our sixth and agreed final session, I had stopped taking photos each morning. I know this sounds silly, but if I ever felt a sense of anxiety rising, I just looked at the pictures I’d taken before.”
“Do you look at them now, nearly two years on?” The writer asked.
“No. I still have them on my phone. I haven’t seen them for over a year now. We agreed to one more appointment the counsellor and I, about three months after the last session. It served as a ‘catch-up’ session, to see how things were going.”
“Yes, it was. He gave me one last strategy, which has proven to be of value. If I go away, visiting friends or back home to Sicily for a break, I defrost the refrigerator and turn off the gas and electricity at the mains supply. I take a photo of the inside of the meter cupboard, showing the switches in the off position. I do this as an insurance.”
“I see.” said the writer, placing his knife and fork together centrally on his plate. “So you wouldn’t say you are cured, so-to-speak? There remains a risk.”
“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” Mia replied, “You know, everyone has issues. I guess I have learnt how to manage my situation, which lets me lead a pretty normal life.”
They both looked around to see a line of customers queuing from the service counter, out through the front door of the cafe. Frankie standing with both arms held aloft in a desperate gesture.
The waitress shifted the chair backwards and rose from her seat. “I hope you liked my story Mr Writer, every word of it is true – don’t go putting it into one of your stories mind!” She said winking and wagging a finger, as she turned to leave.
“Frankie! Aspettami, arrivo!“
I am a fly, on the wall, of a cafe. Not one of these modern, hipster cafes merely selling fancy coffee, cupcakes and macaroons. No, a classic British cafe selling English food, run by a Portuguese family upholding traditional values. Underneath the cafe name on each of the sign-written windows, is the inscription “Est. 1932”. Whenever queried about his family’s historical connection with the premises, as often he is, the proprietor answers with a weary smile that no, it was not his family who’d conceived of the cafe, he’d simply bought the enterprise back in 1988.
I am a fly. Simple, yet not so simple. What you humans don’t realise, is that we flies are telepathic. While telepathy can work both ways, my thoughts are coming across to you as the intense hum heard when I paraglide over your head. For me, I understand your language well, and I read your mind.
What’s more, in an ingenious add-on provided by the natural world, some of us flies can harness the power of thought control. In practice and in this particular instance, I have taken temporary administration over one of your species and will succeed in having him write this story, a little later on. He is sat in the same cafe, alone, where this story starts and ends.
I found him in a window seat, staring out through the glass, ruminating over recent events, while trying his best to ignore the loud coughing of a man positioned just a few chairs along from him. It had disgusted him, he’d pondered on why the old chap hadn’t employed the basic manoeuvre of covering his mouth with his hand or a handkerchief. Despite brave efforts, our man was losing the battle to block both the sound and the imagery from his mind and thereby continue with eating his cheese burger and chips. Instead, he found himself chewing mouthfuls of food, ever more slowly.
But enough of his trials and tribulations, I’ll come back to him briefly, in a while. What else has been going on in here? Well, earlier, ahead in the queue of the aforementioned man, was a young woman, simultaneously pretty, youthful and a little rough-looking. Wearing a faded pink t-shirt and jeans threaded and torn wide open at the knee, she studied the limited menu, clasping it tightly in her hands. We both studied a poor quality tattoo of a butterfly on the back of her smooth neck, the dark blue ink appeared smudged and the design had become ill-defined. She is wearing a jewelled piercing through her eyebrow and a delicate silver ring in the septum of her nose. Her skin is pale and her jet-black coloured hair looked like it had been cut at home, by herself.
At the counter, she’d ordered a standard breakfast and then proceeded to make several adjustments. Could the fried tomato to be omitted? Perhaps half the usual quantity of baked beans and please may I have an extra round of toast added, she’d asked. I followed her back to her table, swirling around gently at shoulder height, riding the undulating changes in airflow caused by her movement. She was working through uncertain thoughts about her food order, unable to recall if fried mushrooms were included and wondering if butter would be brought out for the toast. She felt sure she hadn’t seen individually wrapped servings on the shelf where the plastic bottles of ketchup, mustard and brown sauce are kept.
She joined a table where an older man sat reading a newspaper, a man whose presence I hadn’t previously registered. He was older than his companion by a good twenty years and as soon as she sat down, he engaged in an animated conversation with her. I wanted to hang around and learn more about these two, having established from their conversation he was her case worker. However, I became distracted by three young Korean women, expressing themselves in their native tongue. They were complaining to each other about the battered cod and chips they’d ordered for their lunch. Safe in the knowledge no one else in the cafe would be likely to understand them, their criticism was unrestrained. Mind-reading abilities were not required, only my understanding of the human language. If you can imagine different languages as essentially the same thing, affected only by different dialects, then it’s not as complicated as it sounds.
Anyway, battered cod served up in a classic British cafe, is a very different kettle of fish to the gimbap the women were familiar with at home. The expressions on all three of their faces gave clue to the utter disdain they felt towards the national dish of Great Britain. They picked at the fish carcasses on their plates with their forks, examining chunks up close before tentatively placing the food into their mouths. “Oh, this is so disgusting!” one said to the others. If you’d happened to have been nearby at the time, and heard the rapid oscillation in the buzzing sound I was producing, you may have recognised the laughter of a fly.
I made a beeline for an unlit, glass lampshade and once there, I rubbed together my forelegs, momentarily tensing the muscles in my whole body before I flew off. Navigating gracefully towards the front counter once again, I looked down upon the head of an old woman who was ordering a mug of tea. “Make it a strong one!” she barked at the young Portuguese son.
You have to be within a certain distance to read the thoughts of others, which counts as a blessing when in a confined space with more than a few people present. By flying up to the painted ceiling and holding on with the sticky pads attached to my feet, I am just out of range. This can come as a welcome relief. On occasions, I find the torrent of anxious thoughts streaming through my brain can have an adverse effect, on my own sense of self.
Continuing on my flight in a curving trajectory back to the centre of the dining area, I spot an orange-robed Buddhist monk at a table with his black tea and plain, wholemeal toast. In celebration, I perform an aerial somersault and land on the top of his head smack-bang in the middle. This is a safe place. No one will swat me perched in this position and the monk will tolerate my presence, as long as I don’t fidget too much.
Sat on the shaven head of a Buddhist monk, is best described as serene. It’s akin to being transported far away from the modern world to a mountaintop somewhere in the wilderness, with just the rhythm of a heart to keep you company. Although, it’s true, there are particular types of situations that can interrupt this tranquil scene. For example, I have known the sight of shapely legs extending from beneath the high hem line of a short skirt to produce several powerful bursts of neural energy through the hippocampus of a young monk’s brain.
Just the one monk in today, along with lots of coughers. None of them coughing into their elbow like their mothers ought to have taught them to. Who cares that they are sat in a cafe, spreading germs everywhere! I ask you, what has happened to human civilisation?
Remember the man I came in with, so-to-speak? Well, he’s still sat there, reading his library book, held up in front of his face at eye-level. The burger he’d started eating hasn’t moved off his plate for some time now. People walking past outside the cafe can easily see the book cover, showing the title and author. Buzzing towards his direction to be closer, I pick up he’s only just realised this himself, but is satisfied to be identified as reading this particular book.
His concentration levels aren’t in great shape, there is a repetition of read text going through his mind, suggesting he is re-reading paragraphs and sentences. The difficulties he’s experiencing in a relationship keeps gnawing away at him, until he realises his eyes are simply scanning words on the page, with no absorption of information taking place. His thoughts are also wandering around the memories of when he followed a vegetarian diet. The half-eaten burger abandoned on his plate continues to lose its appeal.
By coincidence, I am a vegetarian, this may surprise you. I’ve never been able to go the whole hog and become vegan, but vegetables, pulses, fruit and cheese, I love them. The popular myth that we mostly feed on animal waste, really bugs me. Okay, there are several groups of flies who do, but us that don’t, we call those guys shitsters. Whereas physically they are in good shape, they tend to have off-putting personalities and bad breath, predictably so.
Anyway, that’s me done here, I’ll send this man away back to his office to spend the remainder of the afternoon typing up this story, when actually he should be working. I’ve had my fill of observation for today. I like this cafe, I will definitely be back.