66.  Friday.

At St Pancras.  I do like it here.  It’s more expensive than the other speakeasies I frequent, but more decadent, populated by continental travelling people.  I haven’t stolen any plates for ages, it’s not really possible with the number of attentive people hovering.  They’re mostly pleasant though.

An attractive man opposite.  Pale, young, comfortable face, dark eyes, solid arms, a bit like a former colleague.  You don’t see people of this calibre in that dock town flophouse.  The odd guy in the green hat was attractive but out of control.  This one has combat trousers with a pouch-like outside trousers, so he must do a manual trade type job, but he’s very clean, so perhaps supervisory, managerial, intelligent.  Unless he just likes those trousers.

I applied for the home working office job today, I’m still not sure about it.  It’s strange how home working used to be associated with low paid unskilled work, usually performed by lone parents or carers.  Mary the punk in Eastenders did something with a sewing machine, Clarrie Grundy plucked turkeys.  Now home working has more aspirational words aligned to it.  “Agile”, “flexible”, “lean”, “digital nomad”, although that latter one has been applied more to media workers and travel writers up mountains, who hook up to hotdesk spaces.  I don ‘t know if I’d bother about using official “hub” style hotdesk spaces, unless I felt in need of professional validation.  I suppose what I’m doing now is a form of hotdesking though, just in places where people come to pose, imbibe, meet, fill time, talk, laugh.  Some work.  Some, like me, attempt to work.  Most have laptops, I make do with a notebook, in order to appear more bohemian.  I try to imagine I’m in a 1950s coffee shop.  I’m not, obviously.

The opposite man is working at a laptop but spending more time staring vacantly around.  I do plenty of that, of course.  Perhaps he’s an observational writer like me.  He’s talking on a ‘phone now, well headphones.  Raw Essex Kent home counties accent, slightly rough but camp and giggly too.  He seems like fun, smooth skin, malleable neck.  He’s talking about electric/hybrid motor cars though, which is dull.  So many people are addicted to motoring.  If my bookselling at markets business ever flourishes I could have a cute small electric car.  A G-Wiz might have a modern Citroen 2CV vibe, but they must be wearing out now.  A smart car may be better.  I’m not sure if he’s taking photographs of me.  Probably not but I’d feel hotly violated if he was.  Violated and excited.

I’m thinking again about what I can do, what I want to do, what I should do after the interim-nothing-back to theatre phase ends.  Studying a postgraduate art programme with a land/writing/visual poetry practise may be an interesting proposal, followed by living elsewhere, living life.

Opposite man has met friends and gone outside now.  Other people at the next table are talking about cars too, emissions in South Woodford.  Who cares?

It’s suddenly got very dark, as if it is going to rain again.  Sitting at home earlier seeing the light change made me think about the prospect of spending all day at home working in a headset.  I could take pleasure from nature, use the balcony as a breakout space.  It will only be for three months.  I could do it and just become numb.

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