Café oh yah

So this morning I am stopped to have coffee. Right now in fact this tiny strange little café which is essentially a deli but that serves coffee. There is this strange little table decopaged with the best worst pictures from the 80’s. Sonny and cher, early Streisand, Duran Duran. And me, perched, like a snake eating itself I sit here writing about siting here. Do we ever do anything for itself anymore or just for the telling? Will our memories atrophy because there is no need to save for the retelling, we just let our moments wash through our fingers and phones and laptops as they happen? I am typing now because it’s a little window before the bus (bus today, rainy and cold) and before work. A little bit of preemptive blogging, an offering at the alter of the temple of strange anonymous intercontinental cyber honesty. The coffee is good, but the cold wind sweeps under the door and runs its icy fingers down my back. In the background to my thoughts I hear people talking about groceries – 'ooh ginger bread for the Christmas tree, oh hibiscus flowers for champagne, have you tried the soft cell crabs, I never liked champagne till I had it with that, sugar in your coffee?, you can have it with ice cream, in lemonade… ' School girls in socks and little black flat soled shoes like ballet slippers order flat white coffee, take away and I wonder at how old they are – old enough to drink coffee? And they wander away with their little raised nosed profiles and pulled up top lips and scuffling walk, and hair hanging from a ponytail, and bag dragging off their shoulders. Little conversations of local relationships around me and people taking pride in using each others names, a community of shop keepers talking weather and business.