Lunch.

This is still a work in progress, but read it anyway


Beautiful word, lunch.
It’s where you get that feeling
that it’s passed breakfast and brunch.

You should tweet what you eat
whether it’s meat wrapped in wheat
or simply some slightly salted crisps.

The attacks of plastics and snacks;
the issues cleaned with tissues, such
as the calm from licking cheesy dust off your palm.

No harm from the chills of an icy cold cola
that thrills down your throat like Gaviscon pills.


There’s those who chose to shop at Waitrose
whose luxury rolls and pasta bowls make them
feel whole,
or those who go to Tesco who follow like sheep
because it’s cheap for heaps of food.

And then the homemade parade of Hovis
and marmalade, packed up in clingfilm and
tupperware.


Beautiful thing; lunch.

Greasy Spoon.

Belinda walks past me half-heartedly, a slouch in her step and a coffee jug loosely balanced in her hand. She stoops over the table of another young man’s, who is wearing the attire that belongs to a decorator. His trousers are speckled with a decade of creams, greens and terracottas. Belinda chews her gum and mumbles.

“More coffee love”, she says monotonously, more of a statement than a question.

The man turns his head from his open newspaper and nods. Yeah, bang some in, he nonchalantly replies. She pours it from an uncomfortably high distance; although doubt runs through my mind briefly as to whether he would mind if a new shade of brown hit his attire. Belinda looks absent-mindedly at the coffee. Enough thought to fill it enough, but not enough to care much. Without a word, she finishes her task, and slouches back past me. No looks, no cares. I rotate my cup with my thumb and forefinger, and look inside. Empty. The absence of that murky brown life-giver does not seem to bother me as much as it should, as with Belinda.

Belinda now sits at the till with her feet, clad in flip-flops, propped up by the muffins. She is reading OK! magazine with a lifeless glare and a limp jaw, nestling and rolling chewing gum between her teeth. Apparently Brad and Angelina have split.

A bell rings, and my attention is distracted to the door. The bell bounces merrily, perhaps too merrily for this dim, dreary cafe. Who appears to be Belinda’s identical twin walks by me, the same way as Belinda. She has the same hair, but is blonde, opposed to Belinda’s greasy brunette locks.

“Mornin’ Tracey”, says Belinda. She doesn’t lift her eyes, yet twirls some hair with her finger, still chewing on that now flavourless gum.

“’Allo love”, she replies, also not keeping eye contact. The daily routine has dissolved this by now. “We’re out’a coffee, Tracey. I think I’ve measure out my life in coffee spoons.”  Belinda leaves without another word, her handbag at the ready by the till.  Tracey gives a half-hearted goodbye and replaces her position behind the OK! magazine. My empty coffee cup gives me no more reason to stay here, so I stand up, pushing my chair casually behind me. It slides over the greasy tiled floor with a loud rumble and I lift it up slightly so I can put it back in with less noise. The bell rings merrily to wish me a happy day as I open the door, which is somewhat stiff, years of grease hugging the hinges. A refreshing gush of fresh seaside air brushes over my face, a natural cleanser of the oily atmosphere in which I have just been in.