Escaping to Spoons on Sunday morning

It’s a little after 9am on Sunday morning and I’ve bagged a booth table at Spoons. A “Small American” just disappeared (pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausage, and hashbrowns), and a “bottomless coffee” is about to follow it.

I’m not sure I have much to report at the moment - other than trying to break the world record for cardboard on our driveway (the paper recycling bin is already full).

A group of older people just wandered past - eyeing the booth I’m sitting in - doing their best to look disgruntled with my entire existence. The booths are prized real estate in a town that values appearances over just about anything else. Sod them. I was here first.

While scrolling the other lunchtime I happened upon an American content creator visiting the town I live - recording a breathless travelogue. It was interesting - seeing the town from the perspective of a visitor. When you don’t know what you don’t know, everything looks so much better.

My other half often accuses me of having a chip on my shoulder about the wealthy older people around town. It’s funny though - slowly but surely her fuse has been shortened. The very same community that like to be seen to be going to church, and like to be seen to be supporting good causes also complain endlessly about any change whatsoever - especially if it benefits anybody outside of their retired community that claim the world was “better in their day”.

There is a local newspaper whose online articles are typically filled with “anonymous” comments by the above community - filled with spite, vitriol, racism, and hate. I shake my head - the same people that complain about “young people wearing hoodies” go to inordinate lengths to create burner email accounts and false identities to “have their say”. No doubt they’re the same people the algorithmic timelines have surrounded with concordant feedback - validating their prejudice at every turn.

I’m trying not to laugh. A young family just sat at a table nearby. Their young charge is systematically sweeping everything off the table. The menu just flew several yards across the room. Dad is diving around, apologising as he collects back the recently airborne ammunition.

Anyway... what else is there to share?

My computer arrived back on Friday.

I’m not sure if I told the story here about it. I’ll bore you spectacularly for a minute or two. It turned out it’s had a fault hidden deep in its brain ever since I bought it - a cancer of sorts. A design flaw in the CPU meant it could request more electricity than it could sensibly deal with - which is fine from time to time, but ends up after two years with it starting to lose it’s tiny little mind. After a brain transplant, it’s fine again.

I’ll blame the absence of the computer for me having acquired the Commodore 64. Idle hands, the devils work, and all that.

Anyway.

Time is marching on. More families are arriving. Time to get out of dodge. No doubt my exit will trigger a rush for the vacant booth. I’ve seen it happen before.