Drinking coffee in a different world
I had a cup of coffee in this cafe when I visited Eastbourne - I'd driven up the day before to Hailsham with Tessa - I visited Eastbourne whilst Tessa was attending an Occupational Therapy Taster session -
I've always been interested in the idea of class - the invisible signals we give out in England about our status - I would like to think that I'm beyond class, like a starling with no song of its own - I'm sure, though, that I'm marked out as a citizen of Pardonia -
I felt no unease, however, drinking coffee here - the air inside the cafe was steamy - the furnishings were simple - scalding tea was poured into mugs from a large metal teapot - the Italian proprietress joshed her customers - there were photographs of her slim daughter on the wall behind the counter - I could hear steam hissing somewhere -
The morning regulars were coming in for their breakfasts - they were all men, and they all had the marks of being wounded by life in some way - one or two had beards - they spoke loudly to each other - one man was talking to himself -
This cafe was their club, I thought - they were welcome here - they could sit here, in the warm, out of the icy drizzle - one man studied his Daily Mail -
I felt that I could stay here for hours, drinking coffee, staring at the grey street - but I thought about the rules of this different world - I would still be caught out, sooner or later -
I had a cup of coffee in this cafe when I visited Eastbourne - I'd driven up the day before to Hailsham with Tessa - I visited Eastbourne whilst Tessa was attending an Occupational Therapy Taster session -
I've always been interested in the idea of class - the invisible signals we give out in England about our status - I would like to think that I'm beyond class, like a starling with no song of its own - I'm sure, though, that I'm marked out as a citizen of Pardonia -
I felt no unease, however, drinking coffee here - the air inside the cafe was steamy - the furnishings were simple - scalding tea was poured into mugs from a large metal teapot - the Italian proprietress joshed her customers - there were photographs of her slim daughter on the wall behind the counter - I could hear steam hissing somewhere -
The morning regulars were coming in for their breakfasts - they were all men, and they all had the marks of being wounded by life in some way - one or two had beards - they spoke loudly to each other - one man was talking to himself -
This cafe was their club, I thought - they were welcome here - they could sit here, in the warm, out of the icy drizzle - one man studied his Daily Mail -
I felt that I could stay here for hours, drinking coffee, staring at the grey street - but I thought about the rules of this different world - I would still be caught out, sooner or later -
I'm reading this in a cafe in Shoredith - a somewhat different species from your Eastbourne eatery by the sound of it: varnished floors, mezzanine areas, walls painted with quasi-Mexican graphics (it's called El Paso), passionate but relatively obscure pop music playing (not the radio), half a dozen earnest people working intently at their laptops and iPads, or speaking quickly into iPhones, absolutely no interaction between them, while the traffic roars continuously by outside on Old St. I'm having a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea before I go to do a teaching observation round the corner at Hackney College. My bacon buttie came in a baguette cut in two ate sharp angle, indicating it's a middle class version of a classic snack. Hackney College is 200 yards away on Hoxton High St, but is located in a different world. The great thing about London is the proximity of these different worlds, and I love having the opportunity to surf them, like you Chris, pretending to be unaffiliated. Starlings have rather ugly songs anyway.....
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