Writing fragment, Sun 28th Feb 15, 11.30am-ish

So, I'm in the town's branch of Greggs and because I have forgotten my password to The Cloud yet again, I'm offline with my coffee. As I went out without a book, fool of a Took that I am, I'm messing with the Office app on the phone. Is it any good for doing any impromptu writing? That's the first question. I'm not sure. Though the spellchecky autocorrect helps as I'm going, my thumbs are too substantial to make fast headway; I'm not sure that I can keep up with myself. Hmm. However, it's plenty good enough for making notes though.

The phone syncs to my cloud storage, or it would if I was online, so there's the potential for a bit of light editing once the stars align.

Mind you, it's pleasant enough here with my Americano and my bag of local department store purchases (a tin opener, a craft knife, and a slightly-too-elaborate-for-my-needs set of precision screwdrivers). The place is pretty full, it being late morning on a sunny Spring Sunday and folk are stopping off mid-mooch, not there's much open to mooch to and from. 

Then again, a new shop frontage is being installed across the road in the old sweet shop on the corner, so there's someone else's work to watch. Looks like another estate agency is about to open. Cleethorpes, Immingham, Louth, according to the fresh awning being put up by Paul from Ashley Blinds and his oppo. All the places. The agency's going far.

Folk are eating all around me. Late breakfast rolls, icing-covered pastries. A Belgian bun like a Rubenesque fantasy.

A pair of smart senior couples; on the way back from church by the looks of them. They're chatting about pub and football later in the day. League Cup Final and their tea out; there are worse ways to round off your weekend.

A family group; highchair and wet wipes. A tray of drinks and a procession of trips to the loo. Some necessary, some purely exploratory, following the archetypal young person's seemingly insatiable curiosity about the location and furnishings of the toileting facilities in any public environment. They love 'em, it seems.

I can't quite make it out if the background radio is an in-house channel or the local BBC station. Hits of the Eighties are being scrolled through. An old guy on his own (has kept his hat on indoors; hands in pockets) grunts his way to himself through the chorus to The Whole of the Moon.

He's waiting for someone. They're not here yet; he hasn't bought anything.

A left-behind newspaper. Correction; the guts of one. Discarded sections include the sports and the business section. Might be provided by the cafe, might not.

Folk turn over. Average sitting time seems to be around fifteen minutes. A bakery cove - hairnet and a deliberate manner - cleans away the couple of tables whose previous occupants haven't observed the ritual of self-stacking your crockery in the appropriate shelved hatch. A whiff of squirted antibacterial cleaner as the tables get a swift wipe down.

Some more folks drift in. Doorway hovering; they've got buggies in tow, and there's not that many park-up spots.

One sec.

I'm outside now, having done the decent thing and made way. A quick silent ballet of eye contact, gesture, murmured apologies on both sides in the English manner, and I'm off. On the way out, the carbon-and-cream smell of a fresh cheese on toast.