They’re always there.
Among the groups of foreign students spread out across
multiple tables, arguing loudly, huddled in loving couples, their feet on the
furniture in a way that no self-respecting 1960’s mother would tolerate at home,
let alone in a public place;
Among the business suits, tie-less to reflect the relaxed
atmosphere of their off-site meeting, juniors giddy as school kids let out
early for the day, jaded middle-aged middle-managers slumped beneath the weight
of seen-it-all-before experience;
Among the yummy mummies sharing one naughty treat between
three while comparing infant progress, buggy performance and horror stories in
their one blissful hour a week that they get to talk to another adult who just
might possibly understand;
They’re always there.
The scribblers and the tappers, the silent observers, the
poets and the novelists whose claims to these titles are tenuous at best,
laughable at the other extreme. Most of their work will never see the light of
day except maybe via the murky semi-legitimate routes of self-publishing,
vanity press or the instant obscurity of website blogs.
The coffee shop is their oasis, a break from the endless
lonely hours connected to a home-office keyboard. The rental price of a coffee
every ninety minutes or so is a bargain for the use of two square metres of
prime city centre retail unit.
It can work. Ernest Hemingway, J.K. Rowling, Dostoevsky, F.
Scott Fitzgerald, Hans Christian Andersen, Franz Kafka; all were known to write
in coffee houses or cafés. Those who chose this route now are in illustrious
company indeed. But most who make their marks on paper or screen in public
places will see their writing suffer the worst fate that any written word can.
It will remain unread and ignored.
As for me? I’ve been here a while. I need another venti
mocha.
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