my life orbits coffee shops and libraries, the pull of caffine and books sending me in certain, slow arcs across the city. the staff at caffe nero can serve me before i order; although, since i always drink americanos, and not some complex concoction of cream, coffee and chocolate whipped up to a frenzy, there is little memory work to be done.
in the morning:
i leave my room as the market is being unpacked from the back of trucks, the frames of stalls being dressed by strong-looking boys in hoodies. A couple of men huddle round a van that sells hot drinks, steam rising from the cups in their cupped hands, and chatter from their lips. it is barely seven, but one of the cafe-restaurants is already unfolding out into the street, promising alfresco lunches- very continental- if the weather holds.