Come Sit With Me

Come sit with me. Come sit here in the caffeine filled haze we call paradise. The legal high that our fathers and their fathers before have relished, for here we are one. The mothers, the students, the disapproving men with broadsheets in hand, everyone has a home here.

Let me pass you this extra I have acquired. Do you take milk? The sugar is over there. The chair next to me is a little worn and mismatched, but that is the norm. Brush off the crumbs of the previous tenant and join me in weekend conversation.

The background music will lull you into a false pretence of your own class and status. The type of music you recognise but do not know. They are the backing beats that serve as melodic distraction from the mess surrounding us. I have heard in booksheleved corners that it improves the taste, what do you think?

See that man behind my left shoulder? I know him to be a regular. The frustrated writer who huffs and sighs over work that will never make it to print. Chomping on cheap nuts and downing brown goo in paper cups, for he cannot afford the china. He is a freeloader of the establishment, clinging desperately to an image that cannot be sustained. I remember when he used to sip on only the finest quality beans and nibble on pastries with young women, but those days are gone. We have all changed since those days.

My friend, you look a little troubled. Don’t be. In this world we are all addicts of our own making. I only seek to show you the truth that lurks in the steam. Save your pity for Africa, it is a wasted emotion in this Latino supplied space. I see you have finished your drink. Would you like another? It would be my honour. They serve only the finest cheap substances here, it is why we never leave.

I am so happy you came to sit with me my partner. Now stress no more and relax, the fresh coffee will be here soon.

 

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I’m The Classiest Thing to Happen to Swindon Since Billie Piper

With a title like that you’re probably thinking one of three things, “too right Alice is”, “this girl has got right up herself since she set up a Facebook page. Who is she, Donald Trump?” or “huh, I did not know Billie Piper came from Swindon”. Either way, I’m going to say it loud and proud* (*not in real life you understand? Just online).

Two weeks ago was carrying an unzipped suitcase down the stairs when all my belongings tumbled out. At that very moment I thought to myself “you really are a piece of something” and now I know what that something is. It’s pretty obvious that I am the embodiment of class and comedy gold (I’m also the embodiment of a minor caffeine addition and sleep deprivation, but I’ll leave that to the obituarists).

Backtracking a little, with a name that translates as “Pig Hill” not a lot of celebrities have graced the streets and houses of Swindon. Case in point: when was the last time you saw Jude Law in the Canal Walk McDonald’s? Exactly. And don’t get me started about the fact Canal Walk is no where near water. I’m going off on a ranty tangent here, but Swindon needs to have a serious rebrand. Why not change the name to, say, “Swingdon” and make the place full of jazz or “Richdon” (subliminal messaging for the dumb rich people)? I pay you enough ruddy money in taxes, sort it out council.

Until a new name is implemented or Jude Law decides to unleash his offspring into the concrete jungle that is Swindon’s Tented Market (really, it is made of that – WHO WORKS IN BRANDING?!), then I’m going to claim the title of classiest female to grace Swindon. Sure, I spill tea quite literally everywhere and yes, I can be reduced down to a child-like mentality when presented with new pillows, but given my competition is Billie Piper then I think I have good grounds for asserting my case. For anyone not in the know, Piper made her name in the late 90s/early 00s as a pop star and then as an actress (more commonly known for playing Rose Tyler in the reboot of Doctor Who). She’s good, don’t get me wrong, but Swindonians don’t half like to harp on about her like she’s a big claim to fame. You know who my local town of Stratford-Upon-Avon had? Shakespeare, that’s who. Trust me, there’s no beating that, however competing against this I think I could take Piper on:

(Seeing bins melt into men, billboard cartoons come alive and rhino bouncers? Yep, it’s called a standard Saturday night out in Swindon.)

I write stuff, good stuff, and despite my frequent Calamity Jane moments I like to think I represent a good role model. I walk to work, go to the gym, I even do the occasional bit of baking. I tell you what, get Anthea Turner (star of How to Be a Perfect Housewife) on the phone, she’ll support me (and in doing so knock back Feminism to 1969 but hey, we’re talking about me here.)

In short, I’m a ruddy aspirational professional.

And you know what? I think my presence is having an effect on this town. For instance back in 2014 you would never see this type of thing out and about:

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You might have come across a cider can or an empty beer bottle, but never a wine flute carefully placed on a window ledge. It’s a sign!

Not wanting to brag, but I’m the classiest thing to happen to Swindon since Billie Piper.

(Disclaimer: before writing this post I had consumed a large, strong, coffee. This may explain pretty much all the comments made in the above. Do I regret them? Not at all.)

Nablopomo Day 21: Who The Heck Drinks Decaf?

On November 21 I came to the conclusion that a life without full-caffeine coffee is a life not worth living.

As I sat behind my desk at 9:15, staring aimlessly at emails it was hard to see any hope of salvation. So fixated I was with the screen you’d have thought I was reading the outcome of a serious political debate rather than the weekly printing reports. “If I stare at this for long enough I’ll establish the meaning of life or wake up, whichever comes first” I kept repeating (internally of course, my colleagues don’t need to be reminded of my insanity, especially not this early in the week). Then in the corner of my eye I caught glimpse of a holy purple beacon of hope. Without a second thought I reached across my desk and grabbed the thermos flask without haste (note that I did not throw myself across my desk in a Saving Private Ryan fashion. This is a significant improvement on previous weeks.) I found myself rushing to the kitchenette area, legs carrying me at as fast a walking pace as possible. Being a lazy/super organised/cheapskate (delete as appropriate) individual, the coffee granules and whitener were already sat at the bottom of the flask, the combination having been inputted into the contain several days beforehand. Probably for the best, given my zombie like state the thought of processing more than “just add hot water” would have only resulted in fire and/or the destruction of the entire office.

Flask in shaking hand, I trudged back to my desk. The next problem was the inner turmoil of deciding which was more important: the need to get caffeine into system or the desire to not burn mouth with boiling water. Grr, why must hot coffee be so hot?! The following five minutes were therefore spent typing simple emails whilst secretly cursing the thermos flask for keeping hot drinks hot. Finally I grew impatient and took the plunge. Inevitably perhaps, I burnt my mouth. Oh hello pain, my old friend. But then as emails starting pinging in left, right and centre I knew I couldn’t put this off any longer. “Sod it” I thought, and in true Pop Eye style motion, I tore off the lid of the flask and proceeded to drink the brownish mixture of questionable quality in massive gulps. Not thirty seconds later I was a changed woman, powering through emails, printing briefs, firing off quick responses to all questions. Less than an hour after entering the office I was back on top form. All the while only one thought passed through my head:

“Who the heck drinks decaf?”