My spot.

A man with unruly blond hair and a ginger beard was sitting in my spot when I entered the cafe today. Moreover, the lout had his feet up on the seat opposite him and I was obliged to sit elsewhere on a seat that afforded me a view of the street that I'm unaccustomed to. 

The man, less than half my own age and maybe just a third, was reading a very battered looking paperback, and that was his redeeming feature, his saving grace.

The book and the attitude with which he was reading reminded me of the person I think I used to be. I never had a ginger beard though; I never had blond hair. But I did read battered looking paperbacks in cafes, bars, train stations and while sitting on harbour walls and the steep steps leading up to lighthouses. 

So with all that in mind I tried to tolerate the feet on the chair, but I continued to note with some anxiety that the intruder was sitting in my spot.