I had remembered what day it was but hadn’t expected to see evidence of it in the coffee shop at 9.00 am that morning. I noticed the ex-paratrooper first.
He wasn’t in uniform but wore a black suit. A funeral had been my first thought, and then I saw the two medals pinned to his lapel. He was young and bearded and very tall. He sat down at the table opposite me and began playing with something in his hand. I thought it was a phone but it was a game boy. Another man joined him soon afterwards. He was in mufti too. And what a suit. And hair cut. And shoes. Fantastic.
He sat with his back to me sadly, but I heard the mutterings and saw the smiles of my fellow coffee drinkers and managed a quick peek at his faux leopard-skin winkle pickers from under the table. Was there a bit of ‘cocking a snook’ going on? A group of uniformed squaddies came in and I tried to capture them as they queued but my energy and confidence was lack lustre.
The morning felt different, as it should do. There was an unfamiliar sombreness, though perhaps it was more internal than external. The regulars still came and I drew the man who always sits in the same pink, fake leather curved armchair over and over again.
When he’s without company he reads from his phone which is enclosed in a turquoise blue plastic cover. He reads it like a book. Other unfamiliar faces came in, such as the girl wearing the jumper dress, pulled halfway down one shoulder who had her ear plugs in the whole time.
Another woman sat waiting for her friend to bring their porridge and then sat talking about Covid jabs and how much water Labradors drink. The shy man with learning difficulties was in again, albeit briefly (he never stays long), drank his pumpkin latte, stared into space and left.
And there were some wild swimmers in too, still pink and buzzing, their hair wet and wild, and swathed in long coats.
I left just before 11 am, dissatisfied with the mornings drawings but in search of silence.
