Perfection

There is something inviting about the unostentatious exterior of the
cafe. It is named "cafe" in deep orange paint on a black background and
recides in a changeless, intriguing beauty at the bus terminal.

Inside, the aroma of cigarette smoke and frying fat. Light blue chequer
cloth style formica tables and ill matching dirty moss green, velour
seats that swallow you up when you sit on them. Nicotine stained, white
wood chip walls upon which are hung sepia photo's of old locomotives
and local architecture. Large, coloured glass ashtrays, the type you
find in pubs, a different colour for each table.
The handwritten menu is sellotaped to the wall and everything includes
chips. Chips, egg and beans. Chips, sausage and egg. Chips, egg and
sausage. Chips, chips and chips. The counter assistant is middleaged,
plump, with a mousy grey perm and a hairy lip. She barks orders through
a hatch in the wall and holds small talk with the regulars. A pensioner
in a black dufflecoat and a burberry style flat cap is completing a
crossword in a folded newspaper and sipping tea. A woman is sitting
stirring and stirring and stirring a coffee whilst gazing outside at
the buses lazily arriving and departing. A workman on his lunch break
sits in oily blue overalls and a black bobble hat, tucking his lips in
and sucking on a cigarette, tilting his head back and blowing the smoke
towards the ceiling.

"yes, love"
"A breakfast, please"
"A breakfast?"
"Yes, please"
"ONE BREAKFAST, NIGEL! You get tea or coffee with that aswell."
"erm...a tea, please."
"A tea?"
"Yes-oh no- a coffee, please."
"'am gonna 'ave t' slap 'im soon. Brenda! I said 'am gonna 'ave t' slap
'im in a minute." The counter assistant laughs and breaks into a
phlegmy cough.
"Could I have some brown sauce aswell, please?"
"10p"
"10p? For brown sauce?"
"yep"

I take a seat and nigel delivers my breakfast. Crispy bacon. Egg
frazzled at the edges. Sausage slightly burnt at the sides. Fried bread
sodden with fat and a generous helping of baked beans all washed down
by a milky tea in a chipped mug.

I discover with delight that it is customary for regulars to pop their
heads halfway into the kitchen upon leaving and to thank nigel. Not
being a regular myself I simply thank the hairy lipped counter
assistant as I make my way to the door. "Alright, love," she
replies.

My lips stained with egg yolk and baked beans, my belly bloated and my
step lagging, I walk through the High street and back to my car. I'm
driving along middleton main road and suddenly, a menacing silver bmw
seems to appear from nowhere and begins to tail me. A 30 something
business woman accompanied by a young girl, about five. She overtakes
me and then manically weaves in and out of cars up ahead until the road
clears and she speeds off into the distance.

The sun strobes through the trees lining the roadside and up above, a
flock of birds heading south for the winter.