Cafe Life
Created | Updated Feb 13, 2002
I am in the habit of leaving home for college half an hour early. I break my journey at Stockport and sit in the Cafe Met, to drink a mug of fresh black coffee and indulge in some People-watching. They have new tablecloths here; vivid yellow and blue in striking geometric patterns reminiscent of a trendy Italian cafe-bar, and five chrome stools at the window looking like they are straight out of the 1950s.
There are two customers today, besides myself. I have not seen them here before. A middle-aged man sits, passing conversation with the manager, discussing the situation in Afghanistan. Talk of bombings and military incompetence.
The other is a plump lady, younger than the man but older than myself, her hair pulled tight into a knot on the back of her head. Though the weather is wet it is not cold, and she looks overdressed, bundled in her winter coat and sweater.
The coffee is hot, strong and sweet. It is good coffee, from a percolator, not from a jar.
The conversation has switched from war to football. Same difference; grown men playing games and kicking each other. Another customer comes in briefly, to share his views, but not to purchase coffee.
Now it is dark outside but inside the fluorescent lighting is harsh, making stark contrast beteen the black ash furniture and pale grey floor. The woman ignores the football talk. She is reading one of those weekly women's magazines, the sort filled with true-life stories about people having affairs with the spouses of their best friends.
Buses trundle past belching diesel fumes into the rush-hour air. People hurry past, heads down under black umbrellas looking at their feet on the puddled pavement. They all have a bus to catch, a bus that will take them home.
I too have a bus to catch.
There are two customers today, besides myself. I have not seen them here before. A middle-aged man sits, passing conversation with the manager, discussing the situation in Afghanistan. Talk of bombings and military incompetence.
The other is a plump lady, younger than the man but older than myself, her hair pulled tight into a knot on the back of her head. Though the weather is wet it is not cold, and she looks overdressed, bundled in her winter coat and sweater.
The coffee is hot, strong and sweet. It is good coffee, from a percolator, not from a jar.
The conversation has switched from war to football. Same difference; grown men playing games and kicking each other. Another customer comes in briefly, to share his views, but not to purchase coffee.
Now it is dark outside but inside the fluorescent lighting is harsh, making stark contrast beteen the black ash furniture and pale grey floor. The woman ignores the football talk. She is reading one of those weekly women's magazines, the sort filled with true-life stories about people having affairs with the spouses of their best friends.
Buses trundle past belching diesel fumes into the rush-hour air. People hurry past, heads down under black umbrellas looking at their feet on the puddled pavement. They all have a bus to catch, a bus that will take them home.
I too have a bus to catch.
