I was sitting with Sal in the Strawberry Fields café on Penny Lane. Sal of the orange hair, black leggings and red lipstick. Sal, with the dark voice, who I fancied something rotten. Sal, who scared the shit out of me...
I was sitting with Sal in the Strawberry Fields café on Penny Lane. Sal of the orange hair, black leggings and red lipstick. Sal, with the dark voice, who I fancied something rotten. Sal, who scared the shit out of me. The café had that late afternoon listless feel to it. Rain battered the windows, twisting the Methodist church opposite into strange shapes. No blue suburban skies that day. Oh, and no roundabout either, just a triangular traffic island. And not even a shelter in the middle, just a sort of cabin with grime-smeared windows, peeling paintwork and a faded sign saying SERG ANT PEP RS. It’s been closed for years.
It had been Sal’s idea, apparently, the book club – Paperback Writers – her name, of course. Only no books were allowed, just stories. She held court at three o’clock every other Monday, for reasons best known to herself and, as far as I know, never explained. Which, basically, meant no one turned up except students and people who didn’t work on Monday afternoons. Or at all. So it was mostly students. And not many of them. There were slatted wooden chairs and small tables you could pull together according to the size of the group. In one corner were mock-leather armchairs round a mock-teak coffee table, strewn with trendy magazines. Framed posters of American Jazz musicians and singers were hung around the walls. The teas and coffees were all Fairtrade; Sal wouldn’t have been there otherwise...
I was sitting with Sal in the Strawberry Fields café on Penny Lane. Sal of the orange hair, black leggings and red lipstick. Sal, with the dark voice, who I fancied something rotten. Sal, who scared the shit out of me. The café had that late afternoon listless feel to it. Rain battered the windows, twisting the Methodist church opposite into strange shapes. No blue suburban skies that day. Oh, and no roundabout either, just a triangular traffic island. And not even a shelter in the middle, just a sort of cabin with grime-smeared windows, peeling paintwork and a faded sign saying SERG ANT PEP RS. It’s been closed for years.
It had been Sal’s idea, apparently, the book club – Paperback Writers – her name, of course. Only no books were allowed, just stories. She held court at three o’clock every other Monday, for reasons best known to herself and, as far as I know, never explained. Which, basically, meant no one turned up except students and people who didn’t work on Monday afternoons. Or at all. So it was mostly students. And not many of them. There were slatted wooden chairs and small tables you could pull together according to the size of the group. In one corner were mock-leather armchairs round a mock-teak coffee table, strewn with trendy magazines. Framed posters of American Jazz musicians and singers were hung around the walls. The teas and coffees were all Fairtrade; Sal wouldn’t have been there otherwise...