Cafe Scenes

In Covent Garden, there's a pre-theatre rush at the French cafe. Tables of people shuffle in and out of the damp doorway with surprising rapidity. I sit drinking peppermint tea, listening, watching.

Next to me, two older women in fleeces and sensible shoes reminisce about the operas they've seen together over the years:
"That was the time I got us tickets for the Rosencavalier"
"Ah, yes. That was good..."
"I don't know what people see in Andrea Boccelli - I have to turn off the radio when I hear him."
"Oh I don't know. He's got a very good voice."
"But one shouldn't encourage that sort of thing."

They fuss over the bill, misunderstand the waitress and unintentionally leave without paying, counting out a handsome tip.

Like a page turning, as they stand up, two young women at the table behind them are revealed.

They share a slice of lemon tart, shaving off thin slivers of citrus cream and pastry as they chat. One - petite, pretty and heavily pregnant - rubs her bump thoughtfully as the other talks about her family:
"My parents can make me feel wonderful one minute and terrible the next. I can never shake off the feeling of being a little girl when I'm with them. I always feel so small."
"Yes, yes. I understand." Her hand soothes the unborn child inside her.

In the corner the waitresses argue over the unpaid bill. One holds her head in her hands while the other puts the tip in the till.