Last Sunday, I tried to write in Starbucks in Chelmsford, only to be turned out at 4.30 on the dot, so on Friday lunchtime I decided to give it another go, in Costa Coffee in Colchester. I intended to make a few forum posts and observe everything life going on around me.
Well, Dear Reader, my first problem was that, not being a regular customer of Costa, I ordered the Wrong Thing, a veritable BOWL of black Americano. As it was one of the few sunny days we’ve had so far, I headed outside, with this full-to-the-brim pudding basin tottering on a small saucer. Then, in order to sit down, I had to clear one of the empty tables of the cups, glasses and other rubbish left by the previous customer. That done, I set up my iPad on a cleanish portion, switched it on and searched for a signal, only to be informed that the cafe wifi is only available inside. Thank Goodness by 3, then. (I never use up my monthly allowance anyway.)
So there I was reviewing a story on the Sally Quilter Workshop, in which I’m taking part at the moment, when something worth observing sat down at a neighbouring table – two men in their early to middle twenties, dressed casually, like older students, I thought. As people do, they got out their phones and compared them. “Oh,” said one, “you get the Nigel Farage feed as well, do you?” Then they laughed again, a laugh which was conspiratorial, comradely and yet secretive. “For me, he’s the only one who makes any sense.”
David Cameron, do you ever visit Essex? This is the youth of today. This is our future. Fruitcake, anyone?
(I feel cheated, Dear Reader. I expected to be making worthy, writerly observations, not political stuff.)