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Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
Take some time out for yourself. You deserve it.
New Zealand or England. Where will you go first?
Yeah. This is new. And on Day-5 too! So soon.
Mark Dawson goes to cafes to write. I’ve seen the footage. He sits at a table in a busy hub in Salisbury in his little waistcoat and dicky bow tie and types stuff. It should have worked for me. Not so. This is my Day-5 disaster…
Yeah, they threw me out. Not bodily, but verbally and very much emotionally.
I am an expelled writer. A pariah. An exile. And I even got dressed and wasted lipstick for the pleasure of my very public flinging out.
That’s all it took to get me and my trusty HP laptop the old heave ho.
I’d taken a week off. A wedding on the other side of the country, my parents visiting from the UK and children coming and going like bees in a nest. I gave myself time to not worry about stats and sales and editing and marketing courses and enjoy my whanau. I did naively think it was a good time to buy a new theme for my website, but that’s another story…
My intention began as a drive to Huntly, to a cafe I’d visited with my parents. They enjoyed an ice cream there just a few days ago and bought souvenirs from the gift shop. I often write in the cafe almost directly in sight of my house. Ironically, it’s across the biggest river in the north island and involves a twenty-minute drive there and back so I can see the rear of my house from a different viewpoint.
My parents just arrived back in the UK after an arduous 28 hour flight and I felt the urge to go somewhere which reminded me of fun times with them. Only a few days before at this same cafe, my father juggled a double scoop of ice cream using two hands and his tongue. Not on purpose either. Not a drop hit the floor. That’s where I wanted to be. Right there.
The first half an hour went well. I edited over a thousand words and created something streamlined. My soy chai latte arrived quick and boiling hot so I took my time drinking it.
I photographed the view from the table, keen to display the benefits of unemployed freedom. My former colleagues slog away at the office in the blistering heat and I know that because they text me regularly to berate my carefree release. I, on the other hand, drink coffee and write a bit in beautiful surroundings. I can only afford two coffees a week and have to sell a ton of eBooks to do that, but hey, small steps.
Sipping my drink, I lost myself in editing and reached that familiar pitch of oblivion. Tourists came and went, sharing bacon sandwiches, admiring the view of Huntly Power Station across the water and criticising New Zealand’s laughable infrastructure. Yes, a passenger train to Auckland more than once a day would be amazing.
What I failed to notice was that the staff had silently roped off the area behind me. Facing the river view, I tapped away on my keyboard in blissful ignorance of my growing isolation. I sipped the cooled dregs of my latte and just about spat it over my keyboard as a voice said in my ear, “How much longer are you going to be?”
“How much longer?”
“I don’t know.” I peered at my empty mug which looked blankly back. Nice. I had friends at school like that. Self-preservation beats solidarity every time. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes!” She waved her arms behind her, at which point, I noticed the rope. “We need that table.”
I had actually purchased something in the gift shop, prior to sitting down. A man who I presumed was the owner, told me to sit there. “Sit in the corner,” he said, upon hearing I was a writer looking for a bolt hole. “Nobody will bother you.”
But she did bother me. She bothered me lots. My Day-5 joy melted before my eyes as restriction and inadequacy loomed.
This woman was one of those bossy women of a certain age that we’ve all worked with. In fact, I bet you just named her. Yep, her. Self-important and entitled, she glared at me from above with her hands on her hips and wanted the problem gone. Me. She didn’t care about my customer status, which is probably a mistake. I’ll still be living across the river in the winter when the busloads of tourists don’t come and all the tables lay empty.
She focussed on that moment and her own impatience and looked no further. I was in the way. Get rid of me.
She could have directed me to any number of sofas or tables out of the roped off area. But she looked me in the eye and said, “Yes, I’d like you to go now.” Then she whirled around without preamble and clanked the seats behind me like a drum roll for my exit.
I closed down my laptop. Husband would have clapped had he been able to see me. Because despite the discomfort of the moment and my shaking fingers, I saved my document and gave it a different file name. Yes, Husband. I know you’re tired of my tears on the back of your head as you sit at the dining table and recover my lost documents. I saved. Then I left.
Humiliation bubbled in my chest as other customers not roped into their seats, watched me walk away. That prickling hush which follows a big public scene seemed to descend over my head. I almost heard my daughter’s voice saying, “Awkward turtle,” while she did that swimming thing with her fingers which I can’t do without getting mine in a knot.
The journey to my car seemed shrouded in a red haze and I fumbled with my car keys (which I should really stop keeping in my bra.) A larger 4 x 4 than my large 4 x 4 had boxed me into the car park and I viewed the scene with dismay from the front seat of my cab.
What a hoot!
I just got thrown out of my first cafe. A writer in exile from a cafe in Huntly. If I ever get on the Ellen show that can be my interesting story. Or Graham Norton. He’d love it. “So, tell me Kate,” he’ll say. “Didn’t you get thrown out of a cafe in the ass end of New Zealand? Tell us about it.” Ricky Gervais will sit next to me on the famous sofa and laugh up a tonsil… I digress.
I’m currently reading The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck and I’m sure it influenced my perspective. In the sum total of my life’s basket of dwindling F’s, I didn’t have one to waste.
I drove home, did some more work and then went for a walk with my youngest daughter. I got the biggest set of monster blisters I’ve ever had from a pair of Converse, but Ellen won’t be interested in those. Graham might, but I doubt it.
I’ve found a new character. She’s sixty something, abrasive and has the customer service skills of a cobra. She’s like Leslie Du Rose but without the endearing traits. Now I have the satisfaction of deciding her fate. I can just see Logan giving her that look. Raised eyebrow, quirk of the top lip… reaching for his gun.
Where, when and how painfully should I murder her in my next manuscript?
Answers in the comments…
#Day-5 #KTBowes #amwriting
K T Bowes is a starving artist writing whatever she likes, whenever she likes (within reason.)
She is the author of a few decent chick lit and mystery series with real heroines who worry about their weight and make stupid mistakes.
If you want to check them out and grab the free ones, they’re HERE
