No sooner had I arrived in Teignmouth than I found myself spinning like a record down the hill in my car. I swung into the curb and the wheel flicked right off. Hence I am stranded in Teignmouth and have resolved to get a job. As the great Schopenhauer may have put it: sometimes you crash.
I am now in this café which apparently opened last Saturday. The paint is still drying, as they say, and the staff still have the twinkle of novelty in their eyes. They chatter to one another and chatter to the coffee hounds of the room, as they clear tables and pour drinks. They like what they do and I like that, and they like that I like that. They also have booze if you fancy getting wrecked. But never drink alone, as they say, except Hemingway, who said: “It was pleasant to be drinking slowly and to be tasting the wine and to be drinking alone. A bottle of wine was good company.” So, do drink alone after all.
They have those chairs which look like they have long cream tongues as back rests. But I am on an armchair, happily enough. Armchairs suit my personality better I think.
I got a loyalty card which must mean than I am optimistic about the place. And I am. They have dark grey shirts in keeping with the pale decor of olive grey, wood and cream. The meds stop me drinking coffee, to avoid barmy insomniac crazed bouts of intense anxiety, but stranded as I am and out of pills, I go for an Americano. It arrives with a mini biscuit. The coffee is rich, not thick. It’s dark and lingers like a friend with nowhere to go.
It’s light and airy with a chandaleir, no less, hanging from the ceiling. Photography dots the walls, local pics of moors and bodies of water. The demographic is wide, ranging from grey haired wise old folk of yore to me, a mere child. That’s good I reckon. Also they have a notice board. A community thing. I’ll stick a Jam card on that noticeboard. I sit here writing the final chapter of a novel and proceed to steal their electricity to fuel my laptop. Oh Adam you swine.
Filter of the day? For that I shall return.