I got up at 3.30 am this morning and enjoyed a few hours watching two fascinating films on iPlayer: Human Planet – Jungles – People of The trees and A History of Ancient Britain.
I went to breakfast at my cafe of choice in Battersea Square as usual this morning – black coffee, bacon, two eggs, baked beans and toast. The plate, as ever, I turned to ensure that the eggs are in the right place to satisfy my aesthetic and practical needs. A gentleman, late fifties, walked in to the outside covered area. He had a walking stick. As I have a nasty foot injury at present, I found myself coveting his walking stick. “Do they come out, or should I pop in to order?” a voice boomed.
I raised my head from the remarkably dull story in the News of The Screws about Jordan and her cross-dressing cagefighter ex-husband holed up in a hotel. I advised, on a pro bono basis, that he should make his presence known to management, who were exercising their human rights under self imposed ‘control orders’ inside…. if he was even vaguely interested in having something to eat or drink.
The gentleman came back out to take a table two distant from my own. I returned to Jordan and the aforementioned cross-dressing cagefighter. “Are you a writer?” the gentleman asked. It is true that I looked, this morn, like an extra from King Lear…hair slightly wild, tache thick and absurd and a week’s growth of salt and pepper beardage… because I can’t make up my mind as to the issue of tache only or go for a full Scott of The Antarctic on a bad day look. [ A quick F**kArt representation is to the left….. I am calling it ‘The Writer with Bits Dropping Orf’. ]
I rather liked the idea that my unusual appearance this morning put me down in his mind as a writer. I told him that I was a writer…..of sorts. We chatted for a while about the various bits that were falling off our bodies as the chickens came home to roost – in a way, I have found, that only some people seem able to do sardonically without the need to get out their medical records. He won. He had more chickens coming home to roost…. but we both sat there smoking Marlboros (he was, I noted with approval, on the fully leaded Red Marlboros), enjoying a few moments of conversation and talked of village London. He lives in the village of Chelsea. I told him that I had done my time on the houseboats next to Battersea Bridge. I enjoyed the meet…random… slightly surreal…
I bought two newspapers this morning. I like to know what those who live in a different Britain to mine think. I had The Observer and The News of Screws. The Sunday Mail, however, had been left by a previous occupant of the table next to mine…and I saw this…… horrendous story……