Coffee Shop Free Writing Sundae

I feel like ice-cream. I don't feel like eating it, rather, I feel like an actual ice-cream, gently melting from a ridgid, hard ball into a sugary warm bowl of sweet cream.

I'm sat in a Cafe Nero (The Devil's Italian Jazz Bouduare) in Manchester working on a funding application, I know, proper fucking boheme! But I can't stop getting distracted by the open and unperverted opportunity to people watch. So immersed in people watching was I, I decided I had to find an outlet so I could finally carry on with working (sorry God), so I've come here. A virtual space where we should tell you about what the company is doing right now... I might do that, I probably won't, but I haven't actually decided yet... So I'm going to take a stab as some Coffee Shop inspired "Free Writing"...

Free Writing Excercise

There's a man with massive ears who has glasses latched around them, that proceed toward their perched position on the out-most outer extremetey of his face, in lamens terms; his nose.

He holds a broadsheet, broadly speaking, tightly, in one hand whilst dipping and dripping a tea brown tea bag into (what can only be described as) a white porcelene bowl with minute handle for tipping toward and then sipping into his frightfuly far back face.

His appearance quite literal, a real life version of the political and empiricle cartoon characters he seems to find so amusingly satirical.

He rolls his hand up like a bun with a whole hole through it and coughs into it from time to time.

A couple to his left can't stop eagerly leaning over the tiny round table they both briefly enhabit and clutter with clattering cups and saucers and tea pots and plates, to kiss.

It's clearly a date, but it must be something like the 5th as they both place their elbows on the table to assist in the leaning toward and securing of a kiss, a swift coffee stained lip bump of bliss, which seems to make giggles eurupt from her cheery toothy grin, which, being so high pitched, causes a slight stiffled jut of pain in his brain which at this early-relationship-stage he is nievely willing to dismiss.

Across from them a muscle bound man emblazoned with tattoo's, brazened in a pink tank-top-type-t-shirt who can't seem to sit comfortably whilst talking loudly on the phone about his youth, and picking the muffin gunk out of his tooth.

He seems to be waiting, but God knows what for, as he idly issues his un-filtered remenicent thoughts about a garden shed filled to the brim in porn, a 1,000 pictures of rude and nudey women, where once wanking dick in hand, he was caught, by (as he said) "Me Dad!" this now can make him laugh out loud, as he finds some sort of solace in the idea that it would have been worse if it had happened the other way round.


WHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH his tiny little princess sister beings to cry.

Their embaressed flame haired mother rolls her eyes as if to say "Why God, Why?"

And I sit and watch as it all goes by.

Always make sure you knock.