Up the Caffeine Creek

I don’t know how food writers cope with the whole ‘eating out’ thing all the time.  I’ve only managed half a sausage roll and, after three flat whites, am shaking too much to type and can’t concentrate on anything more than my urge to pee.  Perhaps that’s why novelists write in cafés; the pressing urgency to write a day’s quota of words before their bladders burst.

I need to start writing again.  Coffee shops will be my escape from pitta-baking and the neglected housework, I decided.  I’m writing this in my third of the day; the first in which I shared a sausage roll with the Greek God and indulged in a VERY creative discussion about profit, loss & dividends; the second into which I was lured by a clever A-board but where the coffee was vile and the music snooze-inducing and now this one: bursting – more than my too-tight greedy-arse jeans – with groovy tattooed tutors and waistcoat-wearing gentlemen.  There’s a man drawing circles in a notebook and I wonder whether he’s an artist, architect or venn diagram enthusiast.  He’s had beans on toast for lunch though.  That tells me all I need to know about him.  Another flat white, if you please, with some foil-wrapped headspace…

I wrote a novel once.  Unpublished, but still.  All those words spilling out of my brain, through my fingers and onto a page.  I’m still bursting with words.  But they seem to be the wrong words at the mo.  Never mind, eh?  Being a street food lady now, I know to keep all the wrong words in an airtight tub to keep them fresh; they’ll probably come in handy if I run out completely.   Tupperwared words.  Who knew?

But anyway.  While I wrestle the wrong words into submission, this isn’t too bad a place to hang out, right..?



Dressing it up…

I’ve always dreamed about being the sort of girl who dresses ‘vintage’.  I still believe that, one day,  I could look like the girl from the Timotei adverts.   Showing my age or what?

I like to think I’m the arty type but, really, I’m more Kirsty Allsop than Timotei.  It’s a tragic confession, I know.

At the start of this foodie lark, we’d smile while chucking on knackered old sweatshirts to set up our stand.  ‘We’re artisan, right?’ we’d console ourselves.

Oh yes.  We’re so artisan it hurts.  F**cking artisan, we laugh, as our seams disintegrate around us.  ‘These don’t need need ironing, do they?’ asks the Greek God, waving  crumpled shirts about.  He still has half a proper job.  He compromises by ironing the bits that show; ironed sleeves poking out of a tank top.

What do true foodies wear?  What if I’m not wearing the right stuff to be successful?!  In a bid to look the part,  I *may* have ordered a vintage leather jacket on eBay.  I can see it now: butter-soft honey-coloured jacket, faded battered jeans and unfeasibly long silver earrings.  I’ll be slimmer and – shut up! – taller too when my parcel arrives.

Vintage will be my thing, now I’m rocking artisan fashion.  It’ll be a trend, you’ll see… what could go wrong?

The Professionals