remote cards

Its one of those early spring days, 4-6 pm, people coming out of work, school, college. The streets are a buzz with people, all kinds of people, all layers of clothes from t-shirt to jacket, levels of intentions. There are too many stories going on, everywhere I look, to keep up with. The school girl, dark hair, Asian face, blue tartan skirt, smiling as she reads texts from her friends. The security guard outside the coffee shop, white shirt black tie, talking on his phone, tells the person to repeat themselves, before telling them to turn the radio down because he can’t hear them over it. The two Chinese mothers with prams, the heavily, heavily pregnant one stopped to adjust her jacket in the spring warmth, while her daughter reaches out and bats it with her hands. There is a group of kids, doing street dancing. Warming up on the way down, with a large crowd on the way back up, and neither time do I catch them doing anything particularly. There is a blue haired guy, sitting outside the underground waiting for someone. A pink haired girl in the comic shop, not laughing at her colleagues lame jokes, watching the clock for when its her turn to go home. Over dosed on stories I stop to eat, to drink, to write, and they keep on coming. The girl that serves me tea and pannini is Australian. Writing the things I’ve seen down, I can hear the quick fire chatter of Cantonese somewhere behind me. While I eat a friend of the coffee boy comes in with enthusiastic greetings and gushing praise of the weather. As they seat themselves, the three Chinese women leave, each short haired, but ranging in age from 20-something to 30-something. The latter two both have fat soft toys, oversized as key rings, one clasped in her hand with her keys, the other hanging from a black shoulder bag. Two girls come in separately, one a pony tailed Scottish brunette, tiny shoulder back, long purple jumper. The other is a red-haired American, sun glasses balanced on her head, wearing a jacket, too tight trousers describe the curve of her ass, the legs tucked into beaten cowboy boots. The Scottish girl gets tea and a sandwich, the American a fruit cocktail and a coffee, the Scot takes a table inside, the American one of the handful of tables outside. I finish the pannini and stop writing, drink my tea and read other stories.

Labels: coffee, glasgow, spring, summer, tea, weather