I’ve spent the last few mornings drawing in the café. I say ‘the café’ because, being the creatures of habit that we both are, we have our favourite, or at least it has become so. I look forward to going there, even though it is freezing on account of their having the door open the whole time. But the buzz and gentle flow of the people who come is lovely. And I’m growing used to the faces, particularly in the mornings. There’s the elderly gentleman who sits in the tub chair and reads from his phone, and there’s the young man whom he knows who he thinks has mental health issues. He always has porridge topped with chocolate chips and a Pumpkin Spice Latte. He sits alone mostly, though sometimes he is met there by one of (we think) his carers. He eats, stares into the distance a little and then leaves to go on to another coffee shop – Nero and then probably Costa. You going on the Prom, later? he asks him. Dunno, he says. Then there is the very pale, sad-faced blonde-haired lady whom I find quite hard to draw. Her features as indistinct. And then there is the elderly lady who sits on the end of the long table and reads her paper. She drinks cappuccino. The staff have their idiosyncrasies too. The nervy girl with a pony tail was on today. He asked if he could change the chair at our table (again, we always sit there with it having the best view of the queue for me to draw). Yes, she said but please put it back as I’m on my own this morning.
And I’ve just realised that we forgot.
While I was drawing a man burst in and strode over to us. I’ve seen them through the window, he said, and they’re very good. It took me a while to work out what he meant. Your drawings, he said pointing at them. I’ve been watching through the window.
I was touched, to take the trouble to come in and tell me. So nice.
I didn’t think people noticed me, I said.
