The Crossword Gang ...

Yesterday, after going to the gym, I decided to have a latte in the Salt Pig - whilst I was on one of the walking machines, I'd watched Homes under the Hammer - there, upon the small screen set into the control panel, were the doll like figures of the show's presenters - I was getting better at lipreading what they were saying - I did my best not to gaze at the beautiful Amazons exercising upon the sleek cross trainers -

Soon I was walking up North Street, past the Red Lion - the pub used to be a louche hangout for Wareham youth - now it was a soulless shell, with bland prints hung on its once cider soaked walls - 

Inside the Salt Pig, I could see the Crossword Gang - they were always there, it seemed, around mid morning - 

The burly man was peering over the shoulder of a woman at another table - he spoke in a commanding voice - it's Greenland, that one's Greenland - she scribbled the word in at 16 across - later, I heard him say that he'd lived in Hong Kong - 

The Daily Mails littered the tables - the burly man's wife sipped her tea, peering at her crossword clues - a young man with a gentle face fiddled with his I Pad - the dark haired waitress, who could have featured in a luscious painting by Peter Lely, thanked him for fixing her lap top - 

At the back of the Salt Pig, in the room next to the open kitchen, another member of the Gang sat with his cappuccino and crossword - he kept himself to himself, and wore a white baseball cap - I imagined him waking up every morning, jamming the hat upon his cropped rug -

I sat with my decaff latte, with my copy of The Independent before me - glancing at my I Phone, I saw that Richard was in Konya - I remembered the women there, dressed in black, with their shining eyes - 

I found myself glancing at the crossword in my paper - my dad had once composed crosswords for the Parish Magazine - now he put down his pen, leaving his Times crossword empty of clever words -