Now and again, whenever the mood strikes, I write down some thoughts. So one day last week, I was people-watching in my favourite coffee shop, The Creel. This is what I saw.
Binmen, busmen, a bag outside Oxfam, all on its ownsome, ownsome.
Sleepy looking staff in Holland & Barrett, open all day Sunday, shop all offers, mix and match, this and that, that and this.
Girl in the coffee shop, speaking excitedly in Ukrainian, with two phones, two phones, one for English, one for other stuff.
Becky with her shopping, stopping for a takeout, takeout and the chat, chat on her way to work, worky work.
That old geezer in the high viz, not the comic, walking like there’s a thumbtack in his shoe, his hip must be fucked, hope I’m as good as him at that age.
Pushing buggies with babies sleeping, sleeping and weeping at 10 am on a Friday morning, in mid-December, in the pissing rain.
And bored looking taxi drivers, looking everywhere except front, knowing the route like the back of their hand, looking bored, with all the news, the views, yours and mine, mine and yours.
Driving slowly, the big yellow high up ESB truck, with long sticky poles sticking out the back and sticking out the front, I wonder do they need to wear gloves.
Hoods up, in slippers, grey tracksuit bottoms that shouldn’t be stylish, but are, what the fuck would I know, sitting with my old fashioned Caffè americano, my black coffee, to me and you.
Brollies blowing, but not on Twitter, or is it X, or Bluesky, or whatever, the brollies are blowing all around the Market Square, here and there, everywhere.
Parcels bound for others, under arms, waiting for stamps, hands in pockets, a bag for life, or two, with twenty more in the boot, along with the blue suede shoes.
That bloke in shorts, you know the one, arms folded, in the wet rain, smiling away, in mid-December, when it’s fucking winter outside, what’s his secret.
Turkish barbers, cuts while you wait, hairy heads all lined in a row, and others sticking out of capes, open Xmas eve, no appointment, walk in, walk out, month in, month out.
A Nokia ringtone from 2003, “Hello, I’m in the coffee shop, Bridie was at the doctors, she got new tablets, but she can’t drive or God forbid, operate machinery, bye, b, b, by, b, b, bye, bye, bye, bye”.
The street sleeper wringing his hands, scarf on, looking cold, looking calm, walking purposefully, no Fitbit, he’s not counting his steps, but he’s a bit fit, with all that walking, walking, walking.
White van man driving too fast, fails to stop at the courtesy crossing, to let that woman pass, he’s busy, to get your kitchen in before Christmas, because you know, when all the kitchens are gone, they’re gone, or so says Harvey.
Pretty woman in a pearl necklace, arrives in a Renault, orders an Oat Caramel Macchiato, whatever the fuck that is, leaves in a Beemer, I should paint her, if I could paint, if only I could fucking paint.
A wet Friday morning, could be any day, yesterday or tomorrow, or even July 21st, but it’s today, the view from a coffeeshop window, good morning, noon and night, don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Life.
