The Dolphin Coffee House.

The first floor, walk-through coffee house, shops either side. A convenient stop off for the weary-legged customer, the long day shop assistant, the young writers brief discussions about the rights and wrongs of last week’s deal.

A comfy spot to relax with your cuppa, read some, contemplate. The brown, old ladies sit for a while, looking at the birthday cards bought for granddaughter, still in nappies. New life, old life.

The young suits come in pairs. Tall, dark, handsome, slicked-back hair, striking ties. Empties two sugars and stirs. Stirring, stirring, with a brief look around to survey the surroundings. Tapping cigarettes, preparing the soft tobacco end, smooth for phosphor ignition, sit and blow smoke sideways. The unwritten politeness.

What important discussions take place?

One arm gesturing, in control of the conversation, subliminally talking down to their colleague – the stronger voice sat back in chair, one arm draped over the adjacent seat. The other, the second suit, sat forward attentive, affirming, nodding agreement.

An older gentleman in bright blue uniform trousers and lighter blue shirt sits alone, sipping and smoking too, ruminating his garden and the weeding to be done this afternoon after their part-time cleaning jobs is done in some fancy department store. He loves his job and loves his garden. Happy that life has dealt him this hand of loneliness. Happy to be alone, at one with himself and his flowers. Peace and content reflected in each delicate petal, tenderly cared for by shabby hands.

Young mothers gossip like geese while little blue points and gesticulates, standing on chairs like only children can get away with. Mother shines, peaches and cream complexion, the rosy glow of life come forth from their loins. Shine like only a mother can shine.

A slinkily dressed young lady shop assistant sits cross-legged, clothes draping her figure with the latest cream and fawn fashion. Blond hair, neat and proper, bob-like fashionite. Resting her feet and toying with her hair, twisting it around her delicate bone-coloured fingers. Adjusts herself in her seat as her skirt fell open to show soft smooth legs, not for our eyes. She sits and waits, until heated up food is ready. She stands and takes the gourmet. Her game is up. She walks backs back to the hairdressers.

Delicate fingers, hair fanatic.

The suits are on their second cigarette – same positions.

The food and coffee counter tempt with their starry lights pinpoint huge rolls stuffed with mashed egg mayonnaise, ham and tomato. Two green-pinnied ladies run around filling cups and passing plates. The orange juicer bubbles away in back, attracting eyes from the queue. Another, younger green-pinny wanders around collecting lip-sticked cups and emptying cigarette butts into a plastic tub.

Great circular light hand from the squared false ceiling, low light. A tender background, while sun streams in the huge bay-type windows, picking up the greenness of the plastic fauna. The plants are so real they look fake. Large green pillars dominate the open plan room, holding up ceiling, pushing down floor. Not easy negotiation for the wheelchair bound. The floor swiped clean is roman mosaic marble, green calm and white calm. Not many fights and arguments in this place, I’d bet, as the eyes take in the subliminal peace and serenity.

Here I am, set to embark right into the heart of the modern world – sick as I am of it, I’m never far away. All this would be here going on, even if I was out picking fruit in the depths of central Australia. Does fruit grow there? Does anything grow there? But I’ll go and pick that fruit to gain some sense of balance, to furthermore realise the madness that young writers detailed all those moons ago, predicting the sad, mad world of consumerism and mass marketing.

Sucked in to the corporate dream by Ronald and Mickey, because it’s simply easier. All these lives wandering around me as I sit here watching. They are not sad, they are laughing and smiling and talking. All making the best of themselves against the odds, none wishing to search for a better place. A better place in their souls. I’m still searching though. If not for them, for myself. My frustration is my knowledge of better things.

My guts churn to watch young families reared on Nintendo and McDonalds – but to strike away is too difficult, trapped then and content to make the best of it. Happy with one’s lot. I’m lucky I have a sense of strength and good circumstance to act against it in my own sweet way.

With some trepidation I’m heading for the city. The biggest cattle market of human carnage and despair. With a bright smile, I’ll cheer them along. With calm words, I will sooth their tempers. With a gentle touch, I’ll invade their hearts with happiness.

So, I take it upon myself to make a difference, to make my life count. To stand for something I believe in.

The suits are still here, puffing away, choking down endless coffees and another hairdresser lady pops over for her vittles. Spotted a mile off, long auburn hair, beautifully shiny, bobbing with the sway of the cool walk, hips sexually rocking in motion. Cream blouse and chic black trouser out of the catalogue of Barbie’s house. She’s cool as an iceberg in the Sahara, confident and sophisticated, she takes no shit from her boyfriend, who come and go, unable to keep up with her requirements and expectations. Not your average woman’s magazine reader. More likely the writer of forward-thinking woman’s articles for her juniors.

Now, some joggers enter, the sports complex upstairs much be open. Tow ladies, pre-Badminton, ordering juices and mineral waters. Elegant legs, muscles tight with energy packed inside clinging lycra. Bundles of lightning waiting to explode with reflex and dexterity. Particular ladies. They imitate each other in their seats like a mirror is between them. I suspect they are in love.

Cafe

(Sickly aroma of coffee, strong and white,
invades my earth-damaged nostrils
tuck into great chunks of cheese and tomato
watch and observe, chew slow on that bread)

Green tiles, green lines, calm the nerves
of old ladies with grandchildren in tow
watch them and wonder, how they came
and later, how they go

The suited young men pontificate and gesture
to juniors, cigarettes in either hand
the sporting gay lovers imitating each other
before playing games earlier planned

Couples, lovers, single-parent mothers
the beautiful hairdressers, all stop by and eat
to put their old feet up, sit for a second
before heading back down to the lonely street.

The hum of life, the sweet vibrations, constant flow, liquid movement, the tension, the stress.

In brief, 14 tea chests packed, left on Monday, me waiting patiently outside reading Jack in the sunshine and waiting past deadline time, til little sprinkles of rain start descending earthward, teachestward, but it soon passes and eventually a lorry and it’s drivers come and take away all my precious belongings, safe journey, see you on the other side!

And day later we send more stuff via the Postal Service which costs us a ton of money but hell, it’s got to be done.

So now we have about four suitcases full of things to live with for the next three weeks, and in fact for eight more after that, as the chests won’t arrive till mid November somewhen. It’s like a relief now they are gone, we have no control over their destiny so we absolve ourselves from any worry, not that we worry much in the household anyway. Good fortune follows our good outlooks, only good things can happen to us.

Broni cracks a little, had enough of repeating the same lines to everyone we meet about our plans, she wants to be alone. With me. But we can’t get away from the people living in this house and all the appointments we’ve made, I’ve accepted that but it is somewhat easier for me to digest as I am on my lonesome during the day. I brighten her up with some love and affection.

Later, Lisa comes round with her new man friend, Jonathan, and they take us to the Bermuda Triangle Bar and we feed up on gossip and Budweiser on draft (lordy!), time rattling by we leave drunk as skunks, happy to see friends and be in their company, not sad yet to be leaving them. I feel like I’m gonna be hit when I’m there, homesick like but I’ll handle it with love and help from my angel sweetheart.

Back home, Kerry has broken her promise to herself to not drink on her own or during the week, she is very sad, missing her love in Tokyo, I feel for her but don’t feel right making her stick to her original plan knowing what she’s going through. Difficult cos I know that demon drink will spiral you downward if not handled well and proper, what can I say?

The next night our appointment is with family, Broni arrives home asleep on her feet, lies down on the couch next to me and falls away without a whisper of a word of thought. I wrap myself around her and hold her with deep love, rocking her gently to stop her snoring getting any louder, about 20 minutes later. Twenty more and she’s awake again, at least her eyes are open, I run her a lavender strawberry bath and leave her to it, fighting real rough tonsillitis and headaches.

Mother has come to pick us up, with her sister Shirley also, and we head off to cousin Sharon and Ken’s with son Mungo, their radical 18-year-old, whom they practically disowned when rejecting public school and trying out the drugs of life instead. But hell, what a nice kid he seemed to me, reminding of Steve in politeness and good looks.

A feast of English food was prepared and devoured, with the best white or red wine your choice, and port at the end, is that how one does these things properly, Jeeves? I make light of their well-to-do attitude, while not offensive, is slightly off-putting to my more down-to-earth approach to life, but nice people to go to all that trouble for us anyway, me who they haven’t seen for probably five years or more.

I drop Broni in it when I see the piano and she plays some for us, sounding absolutely beautiful and much more proficient under this pressure which I’m guilty of putting on her but interesting to see as she rarely plays for more than five seconds at a time on Kerry’s piano.

I love her, what a magician she is, we curl ourselves up, night, JimBob.

Shock brown brick clashes into the sky, grey and steely behind. Old building, sash windows, regular rectangles ‘cept the end. White, brown dirtied drainpipes slide down at intervals sucking out waste from the depths inside, like alien suckers shattering skin slurp! slurp! Blinds open, half open, half up or shut behind each window a story or a hundred stories, all personal, not to be disclosed – secret doctor-like. Pitiful short trees fail to brighten up the crowded car park, absent of leaves in the youth of autumn, but for one silver-skinned birch still magnificent in its dark green plumage, branches thrashing wildly, like mad bongo voodoo drummers, in the greasy wind.