I have a large cup of tea. Tiny bubbles line the surface where the tea meets the cup. It looks like washing up liquid.
There's a loud Australian chatting away next to me. The quiet man she's with is using hand gestures to indicate that he wants to talk but is struggling to find the space. It's like he's been muted.
A middle-aged dad sups from an espresso cup, elbows on the table. His son, school-uniform, spiky blond hair and scuffed shoes, munches on a panini, reminding me of a hamster in a school jumper. They don't speak. The father checks his phone.
Opposite me is a large man, older, with fleece jacket, corduroy trousers, cloth cap, white socks, black shoes. There's a wooden walking stick propped against the wall next to him. He accidentally knocks some receipts onto the floor and curses under his breath.
"Excuse me," he coughs, looking over. "Could you pick those up for me?"
I oblige politely and stoop to one knee, scooping up the papers from the dusty floor.
"Thank you so much," he says politely.
"Not a problem," I reply, making sure I sound all my consonants.
A barista appears and scrubs a table. The Australian lady looks at her and pauses her monologue. The barista looks weary but she smiles as she swipes the cloth in furious circles.
"All day breakfast!" cries a voice from the kitchen. He emerges with a plate of something wrapped up in paper and slides it onto the table of a young man in a gilet. He raises his eyes from his Samsung phone as a kind of thank you. The plate, complete with plastic knife, remains untouched for a while as he types out a text message.
It's all very normal, I suppose. I think about the Australian lady who's comparing ages, holiday choices and insurance woes with her quiet friend. It occurs to me that this is not really any different at all to the Lindt Cafe in Sydney. Not really. That makes me feel a bit sad for a while.
My friend Emmie arrives, back from Canada and cheerily ready for a catchup. She brings a happiness with her that switches me back into the real world. I click close on my phone and stop blogging...
Until I'm waiting at the counter for a toffee nut latte. The contraptions behind the bar are puffing and chugging like an old steam engine while the three aproned baristas buzz around each other to the tune of Let it Snow. I flick up from tapping this out on my phone with my clumsy old fingers, and I spy the young man in the gilet who seems to be watching me and taking notes. Unbelievable, I think to myself ... and I slip my phone into my pocket, ready to finish this sentence later. A mug of cream-topped coffee waits for me on the bar.
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