We got to the coffee shop a little early and followed a bearded man inside. Give me another 5 minutes, said the assistant manager, we’re not open yet. Somewhat shamefaced we slunk outside to stand by the door. Is that patchouli oil I can smell? I asked the bearded man (he was small in stature and there were strands of grey at the end of his beard, though he can’t have been that old). No, I don’t think so, he said, smiling, perhaps it’s Shea butter. Yes, I said, not wholly convinced. We struck up a conversation, nevertheless and I learnt that he was a chef (‘an unconventional one’ – he used real lemons in his humus and got the push for it) and a sound engineer. We ended our chat by agreeing that coffee tastes different (and toast) when someone else makes it for you.
There were a few soldiers in uniform and ex-servicemen in civvies in the café, one who couldn’t have been more than 30 had two medals on his lapel. His friend joined him at the table with shaven head and beard and a very very sharp suit finished off with leopard skin winkle pickers. Fantastic. (He had nudged me when he’d arrived and hissed, look at his shoes!) I tried to draw them all but my confidence was ebbing and there was too much to capture.
We stood together in silence as the clocks struck 11. The silence was inner rather than outer, cars still drove past and parishioners at a nearby church chattered. I held you all in my head and heart wishing you peace. I hope you heard and felt it.
