Writer’s Block

Rowling wrote the opening of the Harry Potter Books on a serviette in a coffee shop. So. I’m in a coffee shop. But there are no serviettes; my coffee is finished and there are no book ideas. People keep saying I should write a book, but I am ashamed to say that I keep being distracted by people-watching.

I should be beginning a saga about the triumph of endeavour and the resilience of the human spirit. Instead, I am amusing myself by gleefully reminding myself that that toddler clunking his toy cars on the table like Roger Taylor and screaming fit to bust is not mine.  Aaaand… oops… he is so desperate to get Mom’s attention (while she discreetly breastfeeds the next in the line of future teachers’ nightmares) that he is threatening to paddle in the water feature.  I catch the eye of a new mom, gracefully sipping her latte while engaged in dignified conversation with the older, elegant version of herself and we share an amused look. What she doesn’t realise is that I am also thinking, ‘ hee hee – that will be you in two years, chick.’

It’s a motley crew that surrounds me at the neighbouring tables: the man next to me has an eye patch and his female companion, nice and comfy in her ugly scuffed Uggs is patiently listening to his bluster. A pregnant mom battles up the adjacent stairs with a somnolent pre-schooler in her arms, who wakes up halfway and wails (more schadenfreude for the old cow at my table). How I remember those days of schlepping ‘sleeping kids (and/or large bags of dogfood in shops) around!

Outside the picture window a gardener diligently weeds the island circle and my thoughts digress to his life off the job. Did he walk all this way to work from Dunoon? What struggles has he overcome and how is this menial labour covering all his needs? An old man shuffles past, supported on both sides by two young women, presumably his grand-daughters. Both are laughing uproariously at something he has said, heads thrown back, delighted in his company, despite his slow progress.

I chuckle at the awkwardness of a succession of men carrying wives’ handbags which dangle unnaturally from their arms, as they attempt to come to terms with this perceived ‘unmanly’ contraption. (One looks quite heavy too). A man hops out the entrance to stand waiting for a lift at the entrance rotunda, clearly unused to the crutches perched painfully beneath his arms.

Then it strikes me that I am witnessing precisely what I was guiltily trying to contemplate: Here, from my booth in the hospital cafetaria, I am watching people survive adversity and conquer their personal demons  simply  by living.

Whether it is family, like the old man, dogged stoicism, like the gardener, companionship or Prozac (what Dennis the Menace’s mom is dreaming of), or even the faith supported by benign and innocuous ministers of religion like the one I saw clutching his bible as he strode off to visit the sick, something drives each of us to overcome life’s difficulties.

It’s certainly not the crappy abstract art that some painter has prostituted his talent to produce  for the clinic’s walls!

 

 

 

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