With the ocean of clear blue sky out today, I had the idea that it would be a fine day to l down to the quays and relax outside with a good cup of the black stuff. Clearly it was a stroke of brilliance, as the notion had spread to every mind in sight of the same sky, and while unfortunately the promise of good coffee had to be displaced for the mediocre, selecting a shady tree under which to find some solitude in the crowd did not present any such troubles.
Everything here seems so normal but so unnatural. All is usual, gulls squawk, children squeal, teenagers sun themselves and flirt mercilessly with each other, older men, faces ravaged by the years and sun console themselves with the nearest draught on tap, and the coffee shop chalk board quotes Frost at me in the guise of bohemian philosophy to suggest that the beans ground and filtered here somehow exude more life and soul than the cheaper, faster brew served all hours through the McDonald’s drive-thru across the way.
It all provides such a broad distraction, but the feeling persists that at any given moment, should a mild gust of wind wash by, the four walls of this cardboard cutout reality would come tumbling down around me. Nothing holds me to this place. At least not while my coffee is served in paper cups.