4.37 on a Wednesday

Adele in my ears, mocha on my lips and some space around me. An afternoon with just me. I'm perched on a backless stool in a local coffeeshop. A stool that demands good posture. Too loud shop music interrupts my mellow choice of music, my labour playlist no less. Outside the window commuters are starting to trickle home, crisscrossing the complex junction in an ugly mechanical dance. People bundled in knitted hats bow their heads in brutal blasts of winter wind. Two men stand in the road peering westward for the next trolley.
A church tower watches over it all, the setting sun casting yellow sunshine onto its upper tiers. Naked tree branches reach over the road, stark like frail pointing fingers, accusing. Plate clang in the kitchen and the staff talk about shifts. Half eaten cakes line the shelf of a bright fridge, looking drab after hours on show. A crammed notice board screams with the goings on of a neighborhood, "Share yoga love with someone you love!" "Philly Youth Radio Got something to say? Want to be heard? Celebrate Charles Dickens on his 200th birthday" (I may actually do that one).
M thoughts jump from home (Is being home with the kids right for me? Do I have the patience? When will I get a full night's sleep again) to work (I need to earn money, how? when?) Just a few hours away is amazing for perspective. Last night I went to bed at 10.00 after a drink with Ellen, I was woken at 11.40, 2.00, 4.00, 5.00 and we got up at 7.00.