The Dalston Cafe

I find myself in a new abode, currently awaiting a landlord to handover the lease in exchange for a firm promise of my first born.

… I shall call it Charlie.

Dalston is the local, located in the second of zones, a zone away from the mothership. Learning London is like learning maths; just when you think you’ve got it figured… Central London is not central, central is central, Soho and Cov Garden are not, but are still pretty central.

Those cunning creatures, the pale Brits. A varied bunch.

There are those who dress, displaying a measure of pride in sub class upbringings. Pink polyester layered over pink plastic, over some other pink, non-breathable fabric. They are those who guessed in elementary years that “Vitamin D” stood, or was code for the male appendage… and never stood corrected. Adding to the reason why teenage pregnancy is a constant threat. Not to mention why there exists harshly regulated answer keys to every crossword, worldwide. To allow a guess, but to rule out wayward assumption, preventing such assumptions to be believed factual, spawning more ill planned children and other economy boosting, aspiration crippling errors.

If only the teacher, hired to teach, had taught the day of the vitamin class. If Mr Smythe (a British enough name) had a care, the burden of education may not be so apparent and perhaps not so expected of crossword researchers.

… Apologies. Even I can feel the venom there.

Sitting in a café I cannot help noticing the unshowered, unsightly mother, muttering to herself, walking down the pavement; an absent minded, innocent child in tow. My pity for the child could fill a laundry bucket. I could tip it over the Chavvy mothers head and she’d be soaked right through.

Luckily the splash wouldn’t dampen my boots, as there’s glass between us. Bar a few oily finger paintings, the border between us is transparent, but definitely there. Of course, the border is also breakable, but only the sort from the other side would think in such ways. Within the café confines, the act of breaking the border’d be considered uncouth-even criminal.

Who is to blame here? There’s too much red tape to get Smythy, and it was too long ago… Clearly not the child. The sweet, innocent child… Maybe not the muttering mother-but maybe. … Maybe the mother’s mother?

The chicken or the egg?

It wasn’t even a blog writing day. I could’ve easily been sat editing pictures, being productive. But the keypad is in front, and my hand is forced. There’s simply too much going on.

The Dalston café is a beautiful thing. Enough pretension in the air to render coffee delicious and the clientele tight fisted enough to keep it affordable. Regardless, it remains a weekly treat for me to visit such prestigious establishments. Times are tough.

Like my beloved hometown, the Dalston café permits untrained dogs, and untrained children within. The untrained children, parented by a breed bred arguably better, are assuredly bred in uninterrupted prosperity; a traumatic distinction from the sorrowful innocent passing moments ago.

England pushes it in the face of the intolerable even more so than Australia by extending this allowance to the pub floors. A word from the intolerant: There is nothing wrong with pets, whether blonde, blue eyed or French Bulldog. But whatever it is, as an owner, please take whatever precautions necessary to reduce the volume of the creature-K9 or human- and if there’s a tendency for it to roam, leash it!

The pretentious nose is sufficiently elevated so as solely the upper lip is in threat of detection… That and celebrities, should they pass by. The antics of the children and K9’s rarely bother air so elevated. The lack of detection is synonymous with the lack of training. As long as the untrained appears groomed it will suffice a social expectation.

Those who insist on business meetings held in quirky cafes do so to seek validation. Peers are about, and never shy of passing idol judgment. An example sits across from me, three contradictions strong.

The head of the orchestra-and it is an orchestra-sits the Grand High Witch. She flicks her hand left and right, as if sowing her sentences, drawing the attention of parties in proximity. The erratic hand movement paired with her harsh vocal pitch causes occasional flinching, as the human senses don’t have sufficient time to gage the intention of the outbursts; the brain immediately assumes she means to harm. On second glance, the tensions release, the brain having gathered sufficient evidence to conclude that it’s all merely attention seeking behaviour.

Back to your coffee.

The reflex peripheral glance still punishes the beholder. The ghoul-esc sight of the Grand High Witch’s ageing skull features a time lapse effect-like an apple decomposing on the discovery channel-only happening in real time. The final frames depicting leathered skin that hugs the skull like cling film. Under the arms, where triceps should be clearly seen on something so skinny, the witch flaunts canteen lady loose skin. So fleshless and hardened and a hanging length so exaggerated, that they’d be mistaken for bat wings. Though, not exaggerated so as to award the gift of flight.

Not that there’s a need. Broomsticks are plentiful.

The witch wears what she does because she maintains a skeletal frame. And like all nocturnal creatures she’d strike fear in the dark, yet curiosity in the light.

Her following were two caricatures from the bloke who illustrated the Roald Dahl stories.

The first featured muffin top, seeping over pleather pants. Comfort would call for a stretch factor in her clothing, but what would the public make of the pudgy and otherwise shapeless mass? Heaven forbid she be unbound and the aesthetic lost.

Diamantes and feathers served as decoration. I cannot explain the creative process before leaving the house; I wasn’t there to advise. Her only guidance; a little engineered voice in the back of her cranium-past the pale flesh-telling her that despite her timeless hideousness, bravery would still be noticed, and applauded. The little voice was a cunning thing, and had set the heavyset minion up for a fall.

The other Head Nodder and compulsive Praise Giver was a child’s poorly crafted art project. He was simply a stick clothed in loose wool, material from a moth eaten jumper, or odd sock. A real life scarecrow possessed by something devilish and thus rigidly animated. It was a rush job, to say the least. Tracking back a few hours, he would’ve ran from the house after a staple breakfast consisting of mud brown accelerant accompanied by two slices of toasted economic. Showering; not categorised as stimulant or sustagen, was therefore excluded from morning preparations. His appearance would scare his child creator, given the wrong lighting.

Incidentally. He’d brought joy to countless edgy twenty something’s in his role as Milky Joe, featured in an episode of the same name, from the quirky series “The Mighty Boosh”. Mighty Boosh audiences would appreciate the hairstyle upgrade as the budget was minimal back then.

All three contradictions spoke in British accents. Despite being in Britain it still seems put on. As if they were of an elite lineage, intentionally bred for a life of marketing and advertising.

Yes, even the fat one.

I wanted to tune out, but the head was rolling down the street and it’d feel like an opportunity lost if I didn’t pay attention. At the time of writing this one, I was unaware that this particular entertainment would be a weekly occurrence for me. If I were to go twice a week, biweekly.

The Grand High Witch made it clear to all the café, including myself, that her and her minions-the fat and skinny-must come up with a pitch for Harrods. Heads were expected to turn at the notification, and didn’t. To further entice, she went on to mention the featuring of a very popular designer, whom after hearing the revered name, I instantly forgot. The witch of the North East paused a beat. Assuming the crowd believed her to be false, as there was no reaction. Her minions believed their witch were speaking at them exclusively. Even then they too could feel the build up of social pressure upon their poorly postured shoulders. The Grand High redoubled her efforts, drawing a wildcard. The witch’s wildcard came in the form of a mentioning of a dear friend within the Harrods marketing branch. Assuring all that the witch had very respectable connections and should be revered accordingly. She loudly informed the fat and skinny that whatever they pitched would be warmly, and seriously received. With all the name dropping and manifested stigma of importance, the witch was sure to turn a head or two…

Nothing.

No mac left idol, no coffee gone cold, no conversation paused. The witches spell had failed to impact all but me. I, of course, was spellbound. Though, not by any effective spell.

Having to utilise the cafe’s wifi to google (verb) Harrod’s, during the witch’s speech,  I wasn’t affected the way the wicked witch had intended. Should I have been familiar with the niche boutique at the time, then perhaps. I must admit my attention was diverted again, as hedonistic behaviour was indeed familiar to me, and I found myself wandering further, googling (active verb) the most extreme cases of human life spans, estimating the possibility of the witch’s true age. … In my brief research I found that if there’s a lack of moisture the rate of decay is drastically slowed… Like in mummification.

The theory was convincing.

In her failure, her head dropped momentarily. Long enough for I, who was at this point paying her undivided attention. A muscle spasm in leathered skin is difficult to pinpoint. I wondered if it was a combination of her failure and the scampering creatures underfoot that caused her to suddenly conclude the meet, or something else. Again, leather skin… Hard to gage emotion.

They had places to be, these cunts of the marketing world. The meeting was wrapped and they left within minutes of the final word from the Grand High… To my treat, I watched the Queen Mother elevate from the footpath outside, utilising a rudimentary broomstick-plastic-nicked from the cleaning cupboard-unoticed. A bottle of Jiff still rocked on the cupboard floor, creaking with a semi hollow echo, still recovering from the speedy theft . The Grand High Witch elevated and sped of through the cloudy sky; one hand held tight while the other continued with her flamboyant waves and swirls.

Her minions fled in opposite directions after seeing their own faulty reflection in one another appearance. They were repulsed like drunken lovers in the aftermath of a night of binging and bad decisions. The skinny assuredly retreating to the shower-long forgotten. The fat, in search of one of three gyms along the main drag. Which of ‘em offered the good stuff-the Pilates?

Her confidence had waned in the late morning. Her feathers, diamantes and pleather now seemed ridiculous, revoking the confidence held so convincingly at 8am. The little engineered voice would play the same mischief the following morning, and for the rest of the week. No gym would be joined, and if it did, wouldn’t be attended.

Pity is all that remains for both henchman and woman. They left respected households with an attitude to stir attention, and found not a ripple of positive disturbance in the social pond. There is no question that a children’s’ story existed in their youth that they’d’ve heard, or read, that dealt with a balance between individuality and vanity. It’s a shame they paid little attention in their formative years.

The North-East Marketing Witch reminding me of art teachers over time. Dressing like trendy teenyboppers, but failing to conceal excess skin, where muscle and fat had fled, leaving leathery cobwebs… They adhere to all standards except the plausibility of youth. Even the disproportioned she-minion understood her unsightly oversight, allowing the spillage of herself over the pleather confines. Even she felt the sting of shame, failing to adhere to standards enforced but never reached.

At least the Harrods contract was promising. Despite their faults, they were still afloat-still succeeding. And if the fat, skinny, stagnant smelled and leathery were ever accused of the keeping of poor standards, at least they’d have their salaries to fall back on. At least they had credibility in cash-money.

Harsh?

I’m younger than the old, fatter than the skinny, skinner than the fat and richer than the poor in pink polyester… I’m sorted according to standards set. At least I’ve adhered to them. Well, arguably more so than those three…

Social parameters are regulated by such contradictive minds, and it’s be rude to not regulate back. Especially when they’re so boisterous of their hegemonic achievements; forcing fatties into cling film, construing the mould of hippy, rendering it hipster, and hoping the old will grow young.

Another long mac, please. Cheers!