BORING AND DRAWING

I’m boring myself.

I’m boring, myself.

I’m, boring, myself.

Funny what punctuation can do. The end result is the same though: he who bores himself is both bored, and boring by definition. Whoop-de-do.

I’m in Starbucks, drawing, drinking tea, and munching shortbread. I haven’t done this for a while, so it’s a bit of a treat to be back. Except... I’m boring myself.

The angle of the lights here makes it impossible to take a photo of my sketch pad without the shadow of my phone falling across the page. I guess they’ve gone for angled halogens causing a diffuse mellowness suitable for a cosy chat. Shadows in all directions.

You know what I’d like? I’d like a stranger to say, ‘Mind if I join you?’ and sit opposite - just plonk down with a caramel latte and start chatting. I’d soon switch off the boring vibe if that happened. But it would take a brave soul to give that a go.

By that I mean (of course) that I don’t think I would do it. If it were a girl, it would be a creepy/scary/stalkerish thing to do. If it were a guy it would probably be even more awkward. The best I could hope for would be a two word rejection uttered in the finest Anglo-Saxon vernacular.

And who’s to know, I suppose, that this weirdo drawing in the corner isn’t going to do exactly the same? It would take a braver soul than me.

An older person could get away with it, perhaps? If they were polite about it and raised the option of me wanting privacy and them sitting somewhere else, right from the off. And even that might only work if the rest of Starbucks is packed.

It isn’t. And they rarely come here alone anyway.

So we sit, lost in our own thoughts under the angled halogens, tapping our laptops, sipping our tea and staring down at our phones.

How do people meet new people, I wonder? Friends of friends? Colleagues? Accidental collisions in corridors as though they’re in a teen-movie? Hilarious mixups? I’m not talking about dating by the way - I just mean the unquestionably difficult process of converting strangers to friends. You’d think it would be easier. Seems it’s more like blindfolded darts: if you’re lucky you’ll hit a bullseye; if you’re not, you’ll get hit in the face.

Anyway, I’m out of shortbread. And I am boring myself. I am boring, myself.

But you already knew that.