She came into the coffee shop on her own yesterday and took a table next to ours. I like her. Yes, she is opinionated (Putin: ‘He should be shot’, Town: ‘It’s a disgrace’ and so on) but there is a something warm and motherly about her gruff indignation. She is a small-town woman. I asked if she was going away for the summer. ‘I’ve not been away for what 20 years,’ she replied, adding ‘Why would you want to? I’ve got everything I need here.’ She pronounces about the weather: ‘It’s going to rain this afternoon, and the weather is shocking. It’s so cold.’ He gets her onto the council office closure. Or was it me? We play with her a little, pushing buttons to see what she says. It is a gentle fun, and done with warmth. She never asks us anything. I don’t mind. She is the important one. They are opening at the beginning of the month, apparently. ‘But not the reception, ‘ she says, ‘that will still be closed to the general public. It’s shocking.’ Then its the Queen’s Jubilee. Any street parties planned here? I ask. ‘Nothing,’ she says, ‘it’s a disgrace. Aberaeron have got their bunting out and everything. And the town is so clean. Not like here. It’s a disgrace.’ She finishes her coffee. It’s a Sunday but she’s still got two holiday lets to clean. ‘It’s my busiest time, ‘ she says. She calls me ‘Bach’ before she leaves, and tries a smile. Bless her. I love her bluster, her neatness, the psychedelic sweatshirt hoodies she wears over her thigh-hugging leggings. And her voice, a smoker’s voice. She hasn’t mentioned her shoulder or her back for sometime, or how she still misses her cat. That will keep for next Sunday.
