We often spend 5-10 minutes standing outside the coffee shop on the mornings we can go, waiting for it to open. A few regulars turn up and we chat. A few days ago N. told us about his Dad celebrating Burns Night reciting Burns’ poetry. “He likes poetry,” he said. The next day he asked: “What is anyone going to do about the fact that there aren’t any bakeries left in this town?” I mentioned Medina. “Yeh,” he said, “but they don’t do those soft white rolls, its all sourdough and stuff.” Then he mentioned the bake-it-at-home bread that you can buy from Tesco’s. Having dreamt about him the night before where I worried that he didn’t take good care of himself, it pleased me to hear that he cooked for himself.
Three days away from this blog and I am resorting to list-like mode, just so that I can note all the things I’ve seen in between, like the line of off-roader jeeps and full-bull-bar-juggernaut-type land rovers parked outside The Glengower the other day. Covered in mud, excepting the windscreens where the wipers had cleared an arc of glass, they looked like they hailed from The Netherlands. That same early morning a taxi was openly touting for business. He stopped in front of a group of noisy students calling out “Taxi?” before doing the same with me. Was he short? Was it in an effort to make a little bit more before he knocked off work and headed home? Is it in fact legal? There seemed to be a car-chase this morning. First a car drove past me beeping its horn in what appeared to be a rather challenging, if a little cheeky mode. This was closely followed by a police car and then another with its blue lights flashing. Where they went I don’t know?
While waiting outside the coffee shop yesterday the woman and her follower, which he refers to as Sancho Panza,tried the door. It’s closed, sweetie, I said. She smiled at me and stood there, clearly thrown. Now and again she’d whisper into her friend’s ear. When T. unlocked the door she barged through. Her amour stopped and gestured that I should go ahead of her. He said the other he thought she had OCD. He’s probably right and I endeavour to feel compassion. It’s not hard. Why else must she go in there, not buy anything, use the loo (together) and rearrange the furniture, several times in the morning? It is clearly a compulsion. G. the amiable plasterer called them ‘Aber Removals’. It was funny but it hurts to laugh at her or indeed them. They are just trying to live as best as they can. Like all of us.
Valerian is out in profusion, poking between railings in unkempt gardens and sprouting amongst the graves in the cemetry. I love such wild plenty.
