Cafe Nero Terminal 2.
3 workmen sit at one table.
2 staff, male and female.
Both look Indian, or Bangladeshi.
They speak to each other, busy cleaning and restocking, in a language I dont know, like Hindi or Punjabi or sth but I’m not sure which.
Can I help you, asks the girl.
I check my change.
3 gold coins. £3.
Check the price board.
Take away or have here?
Um..have here please.
Do you have a loyalty card?
Um…no..but can I have one please?
She’s lovely. Hair tied back. About 22. Beautiful eyes. Dark exotic skin. Just like Razor.
I wish Razor would get a job in a cafe or sth.
An art cafe.
She loves painting…just until she starts to sell her work…plus she’d meet clients who might buy her work…and other artists.
The girl stamps my loyalty card and hands it to me with my change.
I clunk the 40p on the tip plate.
No money again, but I’m used to that.
It’s actually liberating having absolutely no money.
You feel free.
I mean, when we’re born we got no money, right?
Razor is the same as me with money.
We find it very hard to hold onto it.
She told me she hates money.
I know how she feels.
I actually like having no money.
When you’ve got no money, like me, that’s when I do my creative work, like write a song in my head, or jot down a poem or a short story.
It’s easy to find a scrap of paper and you can borrow a pen from behind the counter.
I sit down at one of the brown, wooden tables. Dump my backpack on the seat opposite and my black laptop bag by my side.
(Theres no laptop in it – only my certificates.)
On the 18th day of Christmas…