Ending at 10:47
I have to try harder to fatherly engage with my daughter when she’s in the back seat of the car -
Whose journey is it to daycare? Me, and The National, and national radios’, or she and the wittering and its own cipher?
I should have stopped at the photo of the densification, three stories, half a balcony, and telegraph wires.
Too the plastic chairs sopping wet in the splattering rain, set in a broken line to watch a non existent tennis match, this scene all artfully obscured by the court caged in dripping netting.
I do(n’t) banal cityscape (non)photography.
It might behoove me to empath less, fabricating fusillades of woe across the roundabout into the bus-driver’s cockpit as she innocently hauls at her wheel, my derivation of her state doesn’t help her game nor mine.
I circled the block three times, dithering on a park, none up the lane - superior haughty cyclists sneering at me through the fogged starboard cafe window pane made me feel so small in my outsize utility vehicle that I retreated awkwardly four-point-turning before stopping at the end of the alley and walking in, in shame.
I am self conscious taking my coffee, seated between the door and all, repeats of leaning forward and apologising like it’s a stim, finally redistributing from near the door to far corner to make it easier to let people come and go all while the serial recliner behind me offers no respite or remorse, it was a dumb stupid move, this table’s uneven, all over a wobbly mistake.
I read the tasting notes of the coffee, Scott Labs 28 and 34 dontchuno and so am now imposter imagining Tamarillo acidly tickling my tongue.
Hey, cafe lady, I dig your vibe: bob length chestnut hair bobbypinned into a fizzy bun, John Lennon’s specs a happy nose and teeth, those tiny plastic beads impossible to do anything except lose threaded onto a pear shaped hoop earrings, sweet tangerine jumper which has served its previous generations well (who knitted the rolling knots down the chest?), your brown woollen slacks of a jazz players cut pausing just above heavy brogues with them gummy soles and stripey pipes.
Hey cafe man, my mate David wore that radical Mango quarter zip sweater before he lost his second syllable and the sweater found its irony. I’m not being mean I mean I dig you too you take me back to fourteen.
I am propelled to go now, there’s no one left here who was here when I arrived, so I don’t want to be that guy but there’s still room for six more covers.
P.S., I’m cheery now.