core grimey

Today I am going down to my favourite Berlin cafe to write. Last time I was there was four months back and I did not plan to be away so long. It was winter then and a homeless man came along the rows of customers to beg. He stood for some time reading over my shoulder, and when I looked round, he was nodding and smiling with glorious approval. He put his hand around me to scroll down so that he could keep reading. He put his index finger, seamed with grime in its peeling fingerless glove, up to my glowing little screen and almost touched it. He kept pushing his finger under the lines he liked, making little grunts to let me know he thought my writing was grand. I was so chuffed by him. The screaming espresso machine and the scraping of the stools and people chatting in German as they unwrap their croissants and unfold the thoughtful, liberal, kindly and independent German newspapers stacked in the corner are all sounds I have missed.