393 b.e.

I was taking a leak today when a man came and stood directly behind me, queuing. There were five unattended watering holes around me, so why was he queuing? What was so special about mine? I turned to give him a look, but my face fell over and it turned into a wink. Bad news for the vanderput-

Hang on, this pen doesn't work. How can I convert memory to memoir with no ink? I'm shaking it, licking it, scratching this biro all over the page and it ain't working. I turn and ask the woman beside me to lend me her pen. She refuses. She's not even using it. How selfish. I ask her to guard my coffee while I go and buy a brand new pen, in the hope this might prompt a little stationary charity. It doesn't. She says fine, and I swear I catch her licking her lips. Wait right here.

Ok I'm back, I have a pen, and my coffee's still warm. But shallower. I scowl at the woman. I wrote that whole paragraph above in retrospect by the way. Just as soon as I thanked her for licking my coffee I wrote it. She has the remnants of green nail polish, on her nails, little green remnants. She's picked most of it off of course, but if you look close enough it's there, lime green nail polish. Tells you a lot that does. As I consider exactly what this does tell me, I slurp my tea. So loud and clear people around me look up. Damn. Oh. Right. Yeh, so I lied. I said coffee earlier, yeh, well it's tea. It's just that coffee sounds more impressive, more noir; ice cold hands round a paper cup, pale foam frosted with dark brown powder, cigarettes whispering in the ashtray, jazz in the dark, that kinda thing. Moving ya know? Not exactly the same is it, me stuck here with faulty pens and a chai tea latte? Ok ok, so it wasn't even tea. Gee, what kind of man drinks chai tea latte? If the name of a drink contains more than one word, a man should not be drinking it. Coffee, beer, whisky? All fine. Hot Chocolate? I rest my case. Rum and coke, lime and soda, tia maria? I rest it further.