I am back in my old writing ground of a White Rose Shopping Centre café in Leeds. The retail outlet, which my partner Sarah colourfully dubs the ‘Shite Rose’, surprisingly busy for a Monday morning. Although today’s heavy rain is probably contributing towards the unexpected aisle congestion.
Sarah has many nicknames for retail outlets, including Meadow Hell for Sheffield’s Meadowhall centre and Twatley Mills for the retail outlet Batley Mills. Although I might have made that last one up.
As I pen, the low volumed rumble of consumer chatter is being broken by shouts an adolescent young male. He appearing to opine his testicles moving south afford him carte blanche to bellow raucously at his buddies. Hopefully, one of the recipients of his bluster shut him up with a sharp knee to those aforementioned nuts.
Nibbling on a stem ginger biscuit and supping a hot americano coffee, I’m currently eavesdropping on a young couple’s conversation on an adjacent table. The girl informing her fella Mary is feeling a lot better after her problems. Despite having no idea who Mary is, or the problems laying her low, I was pleased to hear she’s on the mend. I hate seeing anyone suffer… Well, except for that noisy kid whose balls have just dropped.
At the opposite end of the coffee house is an old couple troughing on a breakfast. Still wrapped in coats and both adorning hats, they’re biting through sausage butties. The firmness of the bread appears to be setting a tough challenge for their dentures. A mischievous side of me longing to witness their false gnashers exit their mouths stuck in the crusts. At this juncture, though, the denture adhesive is performing its job manfully.
The guy in his dotage’s hat is a trilby, to my mind, the king of hats. Headwear worn by my beloved grandads and hero Frank Sinatra. ‘Old Blue Eyes’ my favourite singer. Songs from his Capitol years, with Nelson Riddle’s arrangements, wonderfully silky refrains I never tire of hearing.
As I start this paragraph the coated old couple have left their table… Hold on a minute, is that a pair of dentures stuck in sausage sandwich leftovers I can see in the distance?
There is a distracting flickering light in the ceiling above the café. Hopefully, it’s erratic illumination won’t trigger an epileptic fit among passers-by.
It’s 11.53 am. For some bizarre reason I have got an unerring urge to start chiming like Big Ben when midday strikes. Although as I am not even sure if I can chime like a bell, I best not attempt it. If I am going to show myself up, I want to undertake the shameful act with style.
11.57 am and the coffee house traffic is being augmented by lunch time diners. I could do with some lunch myself, however, am reticent to leave this table in the event someone pilfers my seat. Or, more importantly, takes my laptop. I refuse to let anyone steal my computer to get kudos for this pithy work of literary art.
Ok, I admit it, what I really mean is view my internet history. That is a joke by the way, any questionable websites containing sight of lady’s busters would be found on my iPad not this laptop… It would be sacrilege to taint the device where I practise my penmanship with visits to hugegazumbas .com … I have got some boundaries!!
Well, midday has passed, and I am pleased to report GJ Strachan successfully avoided chiming like Big Ben as morning passed its daytime baton to afternoon. I remained silent as the clock ticked 12 pm. Well, apart from toasting the time with a hearty slurp of my Americano.
While mulling over possible ideas for sketches, I am taken by a thought of a man who is blessed with incredibly good fortune. A fella so serendipitous he inadvertently knocks over a 100-piece jigsaw only for it to fall perfectly into place when landing on the floor. His luck also seeing him skim a stone on a Loch Lomond, the pebble returning with two tickets for musical Les Miserables attached.
From a literary project perspective, I have started this year by discontinuing the novel I’d started telling of the exploits of a fictional emotional support team. Instead, I am looking at penning sketches and a screenplay.
Anyhow, my coffee’s cold and I need to go get lunch. Not to mention tell the old fella he’s left his false teeth in the remnants of his sausage sandwich… Have a good one!
