There was nowhere to go today. I tried a coffee shop but it was too noisy. As the clock ticked down til the time I had to return to my little boy I was desperate for a little space. As the café manager spoke loudly on their phone by me I could feel the frustration unfurl in my chest like a cat from its nap, unhappy to be disturbed.
I found myself at the library with forty minutes to go. School children used up desks, littering them with paper. I missed the heaven of a carrel at University. In my days at the University of London library there were even blissful rooms you could rent. A desk, a hard chair, a view of concrete below and the best part: a door. These private moments were spent reading, scribbling and often staring into the back of the mind rifling through thoughts. What a pure privilege.
Life now is a long way off the unimaginable hours I had then (and often wasted). Now, a baby cries in the children’s library, school girls chat and the incessant click of other computers interrupt my scattered mind. Today, I have to remember to send a birthday present, buy some cooking oil and worry about a school event. My mind has always been cluttered but the mundanity of life overshadows it all.
The quest to find the perfect quiet spot continues.
I carry my notebook all round the area for writerly moments. This means I spend a lot of time mentally reviewing places for too loud music, wobbly tables or chatty staff (big no nos). My old favourite has been somewhat demoted recently…
Sitting down I shoved aside the milk, realising the tea cup was still half full I looked around and the woman on the next table, “Oh, is someone sat here?”
Her response, “It’s probably alright, don’t suppose anyone’s pissed in it.”
Confounded I mumbled something about “I thought maybe they had gone to the loo” but my voice trailed off.
Scowling as I scanned the counter for my order she offered a more cogent explanation, “There were two people but they’ve gone.” She laughed but I was just glad my toast had arrived so I could busy myself buttering it. The laughter kept catching me and I looked down to suppress it but it shook my shoulders in involuntary quivers.
In my mind I was debating whether she meant to say “spit in it.” I also couldn’t fathom why she thought I wanted to drink the leftovers rather than use the table.
I didn’t get my notebook out that day, I was too busy scoffing down my toast and willing the woman to move on as soon as possible so I could laugh out loud.
You know if you get a thread on your clothes, you’ll get a letter? Everyone knows that, right?
There’s some lores that you just live by. This is one I have taken into my being and rewritten into my script so I really do believe it happens. As time goes on and I don’t receive post, I receive promotions (hello 20% off L’Occitaine) this lore has taken on a new level of significance. A thread means I will receive an important personal piece of mail. This week a very important and weighty letter came about A and I had been wondering what news was coming.
So do you just pay more attention to the coincidence of the event because you have seen a thread and made a connection to it? Or does little incidental magic exist? Somewhere in between probably.