Find me in the café, with a copy of The New Yorker in my hands. Fascinating the magazine is. There’s something about thin font and minimalist design that relates to progressives.
On a cold winter’s day you shall find me with my favourite hot chocolate. Not too thick, but not so thin to have it burning my tongue. On a summer’s day, my favourite cookies and cream milkshake.
I would be sat, cross-legged, with my adored red suede shoes, sand-blasted jeans (or blue trousers, if sophisticated Upper East Side is the setting) and Marks & Spencer’s loungewear navy t-shirt. Adorned with my choice of timeless fashion is my treasured writer’s jacket. Rugged yet sophisticated, it reflects my balance of spontaneity and rigorous endeavour in detail.
If the setting is international enough (although oddly I’m writing with a clear sense that I’m in an airport), then you might find a copy of Le Monde or Le Point by my drink. I am a big eater, as most of you already know. It will be no surprise to find a baguette landing beside my literary devices. I like it buttered. So whichever café that fails to have those in their fridge tends to make me crunch my baguette in agony.
Flâneur – someone wandering without aim, stopping once in a while to look around. Wandering can be through your mind too. As I engage with my texts, I like to people watch, more so than not at the Champs-Élysées. Here I have a special favourite. My café tucked in by the roadside, away from the crowds. Only a few steps away is Charles de Gaulle Étoile, my favourite rail stop in Paris. In the afternoon, you might find my indulgence in my little glass of red wine. Should money not be of hindrance, the make should come from Bordeaux.
Should night fall, I shall wrap my frail neck with my obsession for scarves. Two of my keepers are grey and black. Depending on my dress sense for the day, assuming in this instance my writer’s jacket and loungewear is on show, my classic all black scarf will do.
I walk down the streets of Reykjavik, as light snow falls on me, and I head into my favourite ice-cream café. I take my favourite seat on the bar chairs and table that’s placed against the window facing the street, just so I can people watch again. Icelandic literature is my guilty pleasure – indulgent, peaceful yet dark (humour-wise) and jolly. The thicker the book, the better. Even better still – cafés here are never full. That doesn’t mean they do not have customers. They have just enough customers before the tipping point where it gets too noisy.
Food should always be served warm. Asking me to eat a sandwich is like asking me to bite into stone. In the quiet evening, my yummy bowl of udon with vegetables and fish cake is immaculate. It is no surprise, my liking for Japanese food (just pipping Italian cuisine at the summit). My palette cannot resist the country’s offerings given that it is the number one country for having the most number of combined Michelin stars from its restaurants.
Then as night falls, with my bedside lamp’s warm glow in the darkness, I enjoy the teasing from Victoria, indulging in her mad crave for Hugo. The sounds of the night reverberate within the four walls, full of passion and involvement, the literal and metaphorical combined.
As she tilts her head back, I indulge in her, but we send ecstasy throughout.