bloke
had to do to get a cup of tea around here when Charley let me in on the secret.
‘Put the kettle on, will you?’
Of course, it was suddenly so obvious.
I got out of bed, pitter-pattered barefoot to the kitchen and looked through a few cupboards. I had no problem finding Charley’s
English breakfast tea, but then that was only because there was hardly anything for it to hide behind. She had a jar of coffee
in there next to the tea, a few tins of tuna, a bag of pasta and six – yes, count them – six half-finished boxes of Weetabix.
In the fridge, a splash of milk, a dollop of butter, a few jars of pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and an assortment of condiments,
but there was nothing you’d really call food in there. There was certainly nothing I’d call food in there.
She didn’t live on this stuff, did she?
I wasn’t sure. I also wasn’t sure I fancied my chances of getting any breakfast this morning.
‘Tea up,’ I said, returning to the bedroom and handing Charley a steaming hot cup of English breakfast.
‘Oh, it’s a bit strong, isn’t it? Can I have a drop more milk in mine, please?’
‘You can if you want to go out and buy some. That’s all the milk gone,’ I told her.
‘Oh yeah, I think I need to do a shop,’ she remembered.
‘No, I think you needed to do a shop six weeks ago,’ I corrected her. ‘This goes beyond needing a shop. What the hell do you
eat in the evenings?’
‘I don’t know; pasta, Weetabix, that sort of thing,’ she told me.
‘I usually eat with friends quite a lot too,’ she then said, filling my head with visions of skinny posh girls sitting around
on crates eating handfuls of dried cereal straight from the box.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll treat you to a slap-up café breakfast a little later if you like,’ I told her. ‘Before that, though,
why don’t you put your tea down?’ I suggested, then slid back into bed beside her.
Charley took me up on both offers and forty minutes later… sorry, I mean an hour and a half later, we were walking down Upper
Street keeping our eyes peeled for eggs and bacon.
We passed a perfectly decent-looking café along the way but Charley dragged me straight on past it and reassured me that she
knew a much better place a little farther down the road.
That was fine with me. I had my own particular favourite café in Catford that wasn’t the closest one to where I lived but
it was worth the extra two minutes in the car for the grub they slopped out.
That said, the Funky Zebra looked a different kettle of sausages altogether.
‘Is this a café?’ I asked in confusion when Charley pushed the door to go inside. ‘It looks more like a cake shop.’
‘Come on,’ she simply told me.
Inside, the place looked even less like a café than it had done outside. The walls were lined with books, there were enormous
great overgrown plants in every corner and a coffee machine the size of the Tardis off up near a big bright deli counter.
What was most weird, though, was the fact that there was hardly anywhere to sit. Don’t get me wrong, it was a roomy enough
place in itself, but all it had were six little silver tables, each surrounded on all sides by big leather armchairs that
seemed to fill the room, occupied by roll-neck-wearers who looked in no particular hurry to say goodbye to their empty plates.
There was also a queue.
Five other couples waited patiently to be seated while the tossers at the tables folded and unfolded dirty great broadsheets
and drank little thimbles of jet-black coffee.
How I didn’t start tipping people out of their seats and slapping glasses off faces after five minutes of clock-pointing is
beyond me.
‘This place is really popular,’ Charley told me.
‘Yeah, I can see why. It’s great, isn’t it?’ I replied after another five minutes of holding my empty guts.
We finally got seated a full fifteen minutes after arriving. Some gormless Janet- and
had to do to get a cup of tea around here when Charley let me in on the secret.
‘Put the kettle on, will you?’
Of course, it was suddenly so obvious.
I got out of bed, pitter-pattered barefoot to the kitchen and looked through a few cupboards. I had no problem finding Charley’s
English breakfast tea, but then that was only because there was hardly anything for it to hide behind. She had a jar of coffee
in there next to the tea, a few tins of tuna, a bag of pasta and six – yes, count them – six half-finished boxes of Weetabix.
In the fridge, a splash of milk, a dollop of butter, a few jars of pesto, sun-dried tomatoes and an assortment of condiments,
but there was nothing you’d really call food in there. There was certainly nothing I’d call food in there.
She didn’t live on this stuff, did she?
I wasn’t sure. I also wasn’t sure I fancied my chances of getting any breakfast this morning.
‘Tea up,’ I said, returning to the bedroom and handing Charley a steaming hot cup of English breakfast.
‘Oh, it’s a bit strong, isn’t it? Can I have a drop more milk in mine, please?’
‘You can if you want to go out and buy some. That’s all the milk gone,’ I told her.
‘Oh yeah, I think I need to do a shop,’ she remembered.
‘No, I think you needed to do a shop six weeks ago,’ I corrected her. ‘This goes beyond needing a shop. What the hell do you
eat in the evenings?’
‘I don’t know; pasta, Weetabix, that sort of thing,’ she told me.
‘I usually eat with friends quite a lot too,’ she then said, filling my head with visions of skinny posh girls sitting around
on crates eating handfuls of dried cereal straight from the box.
‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll treat you to a slap-up café breakfast a little later if you like,’ I told her. ‘Before that, though,
why don’t you put your tea down?’ I suggested, then slid back into bed beside her.
Charley took me up on both offers and forty minutes later… sorry, I mean an hour and a half later, we were walking down Upper
Street keeping our eyes peeled for eggs and bacon.
We passed a perfectly decent-looking café along the way but Charley dragged me straight on past it and reassured me that she
knew a much better place a little farther down the road.
That was fine with me. I had my own particular favourite café in Catford that wasn’t the closest one to where I lived but
it was worth the extra two minutes in the car for the grub they slopped out.
That said, the Funky Zebra looked a different kettle of sausages altogether.
‘Is this a café?’ I asked in confusion when Charley pushed the door to go inside. ‘It looks more like a cake shop.’
‘Come on,’ she simply told me.
Inside, the place looked even less like a café than it had done outside. The walls were lined with books, there were enormous
great overgrown plants in every corner and a coffee machine the size of the Tardis off up near a big bright deli counter.
What was most weird, though, was the fact that there was hardly anywhere to sit. Don’t get me wrong, it was a roomy enough
place in itself, but all it had were six little silver tables, each surrounded on all sides by big leather armchairs that
seemed to fill the room, occupied by roll-neck-wearers who looked in no particular hurry to say goodbye to their empty plates.
There was also a queue.
Five other couples waited patiently to be seated while the tossers at the tables folded and unfolded dirty great broadsheets
and drank little thimbles of jet-black coffee.
How I didn’t start tipping people out of their seats and slapping glasses off faces after five minutes of clock-pointing is
beyond me.
‘This place is really popular,’ Charley told me.
‘Yeah, I can see why. It’s great, isn’t it?’ I replied after another five minutes of holding my empty guts.
We finally got seated a full fifteen minutes after arriving. Some gormless Janet- and
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