forty

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.