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 Unpublished, but still.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..?