Indignity
I'm writing a book of short stories. They all feature the same character: an unhappy middle-aged man who collects vinyl and frequents cafes. The book is a sort of cross between Huysman's "A vau-l'eu" and an episode of "Terry and June". Or "Terry without June", in fact. Terry Scott was 47, exactly my age, when he made the Comedy Playhouse episode "Happily Ever After" which was the spawning ground of seemingly interminable episodes of Terry and June. If Terry was 47 now he would have a stack of vinyl and a blurring tattoo as a memento of mad times in Magaluff. He would have an opinion on Star Wars.
My character is 53 and has no opinion on children's sci-fi. But he does collect vinyl and he does frequent cafes. He's not me. He's not even based on me. I don't as a rule go to cafes - I hang around the Mac where everyone ignores me and I can get on with my work. Its fine. I don't like cafe's and today's experience reminds me why:
I was in Clements in Ballyhackamore. It was empty. There was one guy sat there with a laptop and, mysteriously, no beverage. Apart from that it was totally empty but for the three baristas, hanging about behind the till talking about football. There's a big sign up saying that in order to streamline their service you now need to order at the till - previously there had been table service. Fair enough. I order and pay for a coffee and go and sit down. I whip my notebook out and start writing - that's what I'm there for after all.
An elderly woman comes in and orders. She sits down. Presently her coffee arrives. Funny, I think. How large is this large latte? I go back to writing. After another five minutes a bearded chap sidles up to me. "You alright there?" "Er, yeah." "Were you looking to order anything at all?" I give him a look. "I bought and paid for a large latte about ten minutes ago." He clocks the receipt on the table. "Yes, of course. I'll just go see what's keeping that." He disappears.
Another three minutes passes. He returns. "Sorry, was that a large latte or a regular latte?"
"It was a large latte." He leaves again and returns with a big latte. "Sorry about the wait." I don't say anything. He spots some coffee grounds have spilled on to the saucer and starts to have a problem with them, worrying them off with his finger. "I'm sorry about that," he says. He whisks the coffee away.
I'm starting to feel like I'm sat in front of Chris Tarrant and he's grinning and holding a big cheque: "But we don't want to give you that." he beams.
The waiter returns with the coffee and a clean saucer, finally satisfied. The old lady has finished her drink and already gone. I'm now the only person left in the cafe apart from laptop boy. And I start to think: how lacking in charisma do you have to be to be forgotten about when you're the only person in the room? I look at myself in the mirror that runs the length of the room on the opposite wall. I have hair like a breaking wave, glasses like Harry Palmer, I'm wearing a blouse and I have a foreign accent. If anything I'm trying too hard. How can they have missed me?
Regardless, after the initial annoyance I hunker down and get some writing done and its going well. I'm actually writing the conclusion to the entire book and I'm writing fluidly and and the ideas are bouncing out. I want to continue but I'm out of coffee so I return to the counter. The three of them are still there, still talking about football. I return the cup and saucer to the bar.
"Thanks mate," says the one in the middle. "Could I have another large latte, please?" I say. "In a minute mate," says the one in the middle walking off with my dead cup and saucer.
"Well fuck this!" I say. I gather up my notebook, phone and jacket and get the hell out of there. I crosse the road and go into Horatio Todd's where a pleasant young man makes me a latte that costs 50p less and remains aware of my presence throughout the transaction.
This is why I hate cafes. When in doubt go to the pub.
And this is why the character in the book isn't me. This is the sort of thing that happens to him, not me.
My character is 53 and has no opinion on children's sci-fi. But he does collect vinyl and he does frequent cafes. He's not me. He's not even based on me. I don't as a rule go to cafes - I hang around the Mac where everyone ignores me and I can get on with my work. Its fine. I don't like cafe's and today's experience reminds me why:
I was in Clements in Ballyhackamore. It was empty. There was one guy sat there with a laptop and, mysteriously, no beverage. Apart from that it was totally empty but for the three baristas, hanging about behind the till talking about football. There's a big sign up saying that in order to streamline their service you now need to order at the till - previously there had been table service. Fair enough. I order and pay for a coffee and go and sit down. I whip my notebook out and start writing - that's what I'm there for after all.
An elderly woman comes in and orders. She sits down. Presently her coffee arrives. Funny, I think. How large is this large latte? I go back to writing. After another five minutes a bearded chap sidles up to me. "You alright there?" "Er, yeah." "Were you looking to order anything at all?" I give him a look. "I bought and paid for a large latte about ten minutes ago." He clocks the receipt on the table. "Yes, of course. I'll just go see what's keeping that." He disappears.
Another three minutes passes. He returns. "Sorry, was that a large latte or a regular latte?"
"It was a large latte." He leaves again and returns with a big latte. "Sorry about the wait." I don't say anything. He spots some coffee grounds have spilled on to the saucer and starts to have a problem with them, worrying them off with his finger. "I'm sorry about that," he says. He whisks the coffee away.
I'm starting to feel like I'm sat in front of Chris Tarrant and he's grinning and holding a big cheque: "But we don't want to give you that." he beams.
The waiter returns with the coffee and a clean saucer, finally satisfied. The old lady has finished her drink and already gone. I'm now the only person left in the cafe apart from laptop boy. And I start to think: how lacking in charisma do you have to be to be forgotten about when you're the only person in the room? I look at myself in the mirror that runs the length of the room on the opposite wall. I have hair like a breaking wave, glasses like Harry Palmer, I'm wearing a blouse and I have a foreign accent. If anything I'm trying too hard. How can they have missed me?
Regardless, after the initial annoyance I hunker down and get some writing done and its going well. I'm actually writing the conclusion to the entire book and I'm writing fluidly and and the ideas are bouncing out. I want to continue but I'm out of coffee so I return to the counter. The three of them are still there, still talking about football. I return the cup and saucer to the bar.
"Thanks mate," says the one in the middle. "Could I have another large latte, please?" I say. "In a minute mate," says the one in the middle walking off with my dead cup and saucer.
"Well fuck this!" I say. I gather up my notebook, phone and jacket and get the hell out of there. I crosse the road and go into Horatio Todd's where a pleasant young man makes me a latte that costs 50p less and remains aware of my presence throughout the transaction.
This is why I hate cafes. When in doubt go to the pub.
And this is why the character in the book isn't me. This is the sort of thing that happens to him, not me.
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