Dear Powells,
I am writing to you from my local café after bolting from my cave this morning straight after my deluxe porridge*, in desperate need of air and human company. I say that loosely – I don’t want to be spoken to–don’t be ridiculous!–I just want to be alone, surrounded by other people. Four days back in the studio and I am feeling ready for Christmas break. Only 355 days to go.
I suspect the word ‘café’ has given you the wrong impression. I am sat in the local Heritage Centre which happens to have a café in it. It is most definitely not the same as the bustling modern cafes you may be used to, and are probably imagining. This is a café for old people and that is why I like it. There are no youths listening without headphones to TikTok videos. Everyone’s trousers are belted on the waist–or above it in some cases–rather than hanging below butt cheeks exposing Primarni pants. Everyone uses their Ps and Qs. No-one has told me to F*** Off (see letter No. 11). There are freshly baked scones, that tempt me to eat them by smelling simply glorious and a pot of tea costs £1.90 – I challenge you to find a cheaper pot of tea in the UK. You won’t be able to do it, I’m certain of it.
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