May 17, 2013 Here is a wee small playlist I compiled, for our listening pleasure, from the music I heard in the coffee shop I was in from yesterday's post. I'm taking a much needed week off the day-job next week - can't wait! - and Lexie and I are planning walks along the beach (if it's not raining), a run through a park or two (if it's not raining), and a fair few coffee's in a shop or cafe somewhere (especially if it IS raining ;).
Mx
May 16, 2013 
I sneak away from the office at 1.30.
No-one knows my secret. That I'm taking myself out to lunch. Out to a coffee shop somewhere.
To watch.
To wonder.
To observe other peoples realities. Their routines. Their habitudes.
To steep in the knowing that it is a big big world, compiled of individual lives, and their loves and their longings.
I have no idea if anyone is noticing me. Sitting up at a wooden bench, laying out my magazine, my phone, my 'reading glasses' (that I don't really need), my coffee, my baguette stuffed with chicken caesar salad, that cost 50 cents more than a lamp from IKEA. Attempting to look like I'm doing my own thing in my own world. And of course I am. Scribbling unrespectfully in my expensive looking journal.
Suited business men push around fat hot chips and drink coke through a straw. The barista yells "service!", one, two, three times before he delivers the coffees and cakes himself. A nice, hard-working looking chap in a steel blue cheque shirt, tailored just enough to fit the hipster crowd.
I gaze out of the window and welcome the leaden sky, smiling at the thought of the impending winter and the notion of rugging up inside and writing more like this. A car drives past with a triple seven in its registration number - my personal sign that I'm trucking along just fine.
Having enough of their conversation, the business men occupy themselves with their smartphones before paying the bill and heading back to work.
I admire my surroundings in this corner cafe: the song playlist of independent Aussie artists; the white, grey and black chequered floor matching the barista's shirt; the bottles in boxed shelves behind the bar; the distressed look of the mirror advertising Lions Cordials.
My baguette is eaten and coffee drunk and time has gone far too quickly.
I will be back, here and other places, because I realise this I love doing. And I know it for sure.
Mx
May 14, 2013 
Friends and colleagues and European kisses, left-right-left. I spy a large glass, one third filled with red wine and say "I'll have what she's having". When Harry Met Sally anecdotes ensue. Naturally.
The night is too mild for the heater in the corner and the women in the group swelter. Don't men ever feel hot?
Dusk gives way to night and I'm happy I sat along the wall, so I could enjoy the view of the outside courtyard's twinkling lights. In a room away from the main restaurant we are oblivious to other customers and waiters. Four large pizzas arrive with varying toppings: ham, lamb, prawn, pepperoni, and I wonder if my weak stomach will later be ungrateful.
Conversation circles around work, television series, pronunciations of nearby towns and recent gastronomic discoveries.
I learn from a teenager that I don't have a big enough data plan to download tv shows, and the fact that I still receive DVDs - in the snail mail - makes me very antiquated indeed. But he likes me enough to finish off my turkish delight when offered, yelling "sold!" and gobbling it down into his still growing, ever-hungry, body.
Topping up our bellies with frothy cappuccinos, we head off to the theatre in the chilled night air.
My stomach, survives just fine.
Mx
May 13, 2013 
Saturday morning and the living is easy. Attired with shorts and t-shirts, people are out to enjoy what is probably the last beautifully warm day of the season.
As I sit here observing, I'm re-thinking my plan of choosing this place - or any place - as a regular weekly spot. Maybe it would be better to go somewhere different each time. I picked this one today because ... it's trendy? ... nearby? ... open every day and early? ... maybe because of the bold red splashed everywhere. My favourite colour.
The window vibrates against my resting head, forcing me to check my posture and wake up just a little bit more.
Music playing above me is a cool-moody-groove I don't recognise. My neighbours are talking about Branson's space travel whilst the young parents in the corner play peek-a-boo with their cheeky-grinned toddler.
Newspapers are still popular, despite their declining numbers - I seem to be the only customer without one tucked under my arm. The only one scribbling her thoughts this early in the morning.
After two pages of writing I decide I love my new kiki.K pen and teeny Moleskine notebook. Drinking in the environment along with my super-strong latte, I'm grateful for this life of creature comforts and opportunity.
I admire the cursive words on the feature wall and daydream that I will write like that one day:
“Sitting under an olive tree in Tuscany eating Percorino and drinking Brunello. Squeezing into a Fiat Bambino after an enormous five course lunch. Drinking freshly squeezed blood orange juice at 6am in Piazza Navona ...”
My iPad is left untouched in its new woollen pouch as I prefer to flick through my Tomine book one last time, before leaving to return it to the library shelf from where it was borrowed.
Mx
May 2, 2013 
A friendly but tired hello greets me as I enter the space of black tiles, mirrors and decorative chandeliers. No smell of coffee in the air and my assumption is confirmed - the cappuccino machine is still broken. I settle for instant, with milk and sugar to curb the taste, and it's actually not too bad.
My girl is a bit weary. The public holiday in the middle of the week has thrown her body-clock out of whack. The other hairdresser is talking with a client about blonde hair looking better when there's some regrowth. The ombre look is going nowhere for a while, it seems.
I try to ignore the radio playing over the speakers - two highly paid shock-jocks giving relationship advice to a crying girl on the phone. Traffic increases along the street and young women with pony-tails walk past the window carrying shopping bags and takeaway coffee cups.
Next to me, a little girl with fair locks wants to know why the Evil Queen is so mean. "Because she's not as pretty as Snow White", reasons her brunette mother. Ah, they're learning young these days.
I so adore the head massage that follows my shampoo. I sink into the chair as her fingers rub away the tension and the aroma of the new products fills my nose. It's sweet and yummy and smells like caramel-butterscotch. "Reminds me of schnapps" she says and I reply I'm a straight up red wine drinker, so I wouldn't know.
One hairdresser cleans up and races off to 'do a wedding' whilst mine finds a Bruno Mars CD to play, making me smile and relax a little into the morning.
I leave with pretty smelling hair - straighter than I can ever make it - and a sudden yearning for a packet of Werther's Originals.
Mx