A snapshot into my morning

As Florence would say, 'it’s good to be alive, crying into cereal at midnight.'

Today, my desk is a large fake wood table at a cafe. It has tall, wobbly metal legs, and four high bar chairs surround it.

The windows are foggy; I can just barely make out the lumps of people walking by outside. This is a good thing, it prevents the cafe dweller from seeing too much of the bright orange and trash surrounding the tram works outside.

The main door is jammed, so you have to enter by the exit door. Upon entering, I made immediate awkward eye contact with the person sitting in the cushy armchair by the door - my preferred seat. I said “Hiya!” as if he was a worker sitting there to welcome me and then silently shuffled on to order my drink. I am now completely okay with not being the person sitting in the cushy armchair today looking like the greeter for the cafe.

This week I’d written a whole essay already on habits - why do we start some and not others? Why do I never do the things I know will make me feel better? Probably someone would have empathised with it and seen a bit of themselves in the word. Just after sitting down and opening my laptop I realised I’ve made the cardinal sin of writing it directly onto Substack, on my other laptop. It is at home. I am at the cafe.

I will not rewrite it, it wasn’t interesting enough to make it worth rewriting.

Instead, I invite you to sit here with me for a minute.

I am sitting at my bar chair at the cheap wood table. My latte is half drunk next to me, it’s not as strong as I’d like it to be. Very milky, I suppose as a latte should be. In front of me, the cushy armchair stealer is still sitting, his presence only evident by a slight arm trailed over the side of the chair. Sat at yet another fake wood table, paired by benches instead of high chairs because at least this one is a normal height, is a couple enjoying a morning coffee. They, like me, are a bit peeved by a family sitting at the back of the cafe.

There are the usual cafe sounds: chatter, baristas steaming milk and hammering pucks of coffee out of the espresso machine. And then, the occasional shriek of a baby. Every once in awhile it seems the baby takes a metal spoon and starts hammering the table with it, apparently the baby also does not like the cheap, unsturdy tables chosen by the cafe.

I mustn’t forget the greyhound sat at the bar. It’s wearing a bright orange coat and it is positively fantastic. Somehow, it seem so to be the only person in the cafe unbothered by the occasional loud shrieks.

Now, I need to be clear: I am not someone who gets annoyed by babies making noise. Firstly, I was just shocked by the slamming of the spoon on the table, and then I turned to look and I saw the baby and then I felt bad for the baby’s mother as it may have looked like I was annoyed about the baby, which I was but that’s my problem not hers. So, I smiled and I hoped she knew I just was startled by the noise and now I will adjust my expectations of my morning writing in the cafe to include baby noises.

My real problem is: I came here to write. I’m one of those people who can accept some noises (chatter, baristas making coffee) and find others deeply disturbing (high pitched shrieks). What’s more is I’d just started writing my February In my heart newsletter about the battle between love and independence, so the shrieks of the baby were even more unsettling. It was screaming at me “What independence?! Pay attention to me! Balance in a relationship? Not if you want a baby like me!” So I decided to do that thing therapists tell you to do if you have anxiety. Look around you and describe what you see.

So now, you see it too.

It’s as easy as that to shift my perspective. How nice is it to sit here, among the hustle and bustle, the milk frothers steaming up a storm, the screaming babies, the chattering couples, the sleepy greyhounds. This is my space. My time. My lot in life. History books will never get to see this cafe or these people, but I do. They read their books and scroll on their phones and the greyhound’s face is now in it’s owner’s lap as if to say “can we please get a move on?”

And now they’re leaving, and my snapshot is over.

If you want to know more about how I feel about love and independence, you can subscribe to my In my heart newsletter.