My second fourth day in the cafe. Consecutive. It matters. It smiles me, the wondering of the whether or the not of this four day working thing at my age. I did wonder a lot, until I decided Oh to hec with this wondering flippancy. Let’s go. And I’m two weeks in. It thinks me about spontaneity, about random, about Hell yes. If I remember, and I do, those in my past, who did just jump, who did decide not to fade into beige, who, despite confines and restrictions, emerged in colour. And she is me. Now, I don’t want to say that only women do this colour-up thing, this stand alone thing, but I am a woman and cannot speak for a man.

The cafe was quiet a bit and then loud a lot, visitors coming in, all smiles and askings, and we were there. The baking and the soups are fabulous, the cakes high rise and flipping endless. I know because I am wheeching cake tins and spatulas and bake tins and whisks and bowls and scrapers and wooden spoons out from the kitchen and into the washeroo, a lot. It thought me, and this is nothing to do with the cafe, more my own life. Recognition for work in my day was not expected from a man. It isn’t now.

But now it is given. Thank you