The cafe is crowded. So many people living lives. Not like the dome, these people are regulars, You can tell by the fact that the menus are discarded without a glance and people smile in recognition at the waiters and at each other. Regular coffee orders are brought out without being asked for. It is a monday, but no one displays the usual monday blues. It is a nice place to be. Four 40 something women in a corner move from coffee to white wine, winking at the waiter and ordering sugary carb loaden deserts they would never purchase by themselves. The wine pours neatly into 4 glasses. The neighbouring mother and daughter table sneak glances at the empty bottle and muse over getting one themselves. Maybe not. It's less acceptable when there are only two to share it.

I wait for my lemon, lime and bitters. The baby chews on the straps of her stroller and whinges – she is tired and there is not much of interest at her eye level. I undoubtedly could write a novel here, in only she didn't insist on playing with my fingers. I am wearing a black dress and above the knee creamy patterned socks and I have a lap top; I look the part.

Just as I decide they have forgotten me, another waiter brings the drink. He is smiley and attentive, but there is something that doesn't quite fit. The cafe is certainly hip enough to have male waiters, out of uniform and with oiled back hair. I prefer more homestyle places, I think. Starched white-shirted waitresses with paper pads who call you honey. Where the specials aren't written mostly in foreign languages. I would suit county America well. Or far flung australian roadhouses.

The mother and daughter who forewent the wine swap their plates half way through their meal in an smoothly orchestrated movement which shows they do it regularly. The baby sings. I type. I wait for something to happen. I eavesdrop on the man across from me, who has 4 earrings in his left lobe, a shaved to pretend he's not balding head and a tight black shirt open enough to let a thick silver chain peek out. He has a goatee, of course. I'm hoping that he'll do something spectacularly noteworthy. Superfluous adjective and all.

A friend! Mel. Who I met at the doctors surgery. She goes once or twice a week to talk to a psych. I am a bit jealous that her problems can be worked at by just a clinic psychologist. Her daughter is here, Eva. She's tiny and cute and was pigtailed, but Mel's mother pulls out the elastics and smooths down her curls.