Saturday 28 October 2017.

They couldn't have measured much over five foot apiece. The dutiful daughter with clear skin and haunted eyes holding the unsteady hands of her mother, well into her seventies.
Stopping every few yards to allow the older woman to catch her breath. They didn't talk, they didn't smile.
The mother sat down a couple of chairs down and swatted feebly at her hair as if to brush the nuisance sunlight away. She indicated to her daughter who knelt on the footpath to rub her mother's calf.
Presently the mother rose and they continued their promenade.
A tall woman in her late 50s ordered a pot of tea further down. Her sunglasses dark so I had no way to determine where or upon whom she was casting her calm gaze.
The young waitress helped me make up my mind because the nuisance sunlight kept driving any clear thoughts out of my head.
A tall man with a cane, his left foot twisted inwards, ushered his large family into the cafe as a couple sat at the table next to mine.
This couple looked handsome, in spite of her lime green coat, in spite of his ornate Tyrolean hat with its ridiculous feather.
A cappuccino for me and ummm. She points to a cake in the window. All of this to the waitress.
The old man gently waves his hand. He's alright, thanks.
I told you, I come here often, Alex. I was here the other day. No, Monday. No. What day is it?
I don't know either in this moment, in this sunshine.
Her sunglasses are enormous and hair is jet black and she looks confident, as does he with the tufts of white hair screaming out from beneath the hat.
I'm not sure what else they have to do with the house but it's looking good, you must admit. I'm starting to feel better about it all.
The waitress brings out a flan, all custard and gelatine and colourful fruit, and coffee.
I realise I'm smiling and I don't know why.
The woman has fast reflexes. Her hand darts out and grabs the waitress's hand.
We're all slightly alarmed, I realise.
These. Such lovely nails.
The young waitress: Are you Italian? It's just that I'm Italian and that's the first thing we say every single time.
Can you tell me how you do these?
They last for about six weeks and then you can peel them off.
What are you laughing at?
This last to me.
I'm not.
I am,
I stammer.
I'm laughing at this -
This very special, very ordinary moment.
The old woman laughs.
The best kinds of moments, she says.
How could I even try to make them understand that I was drunk from it all before the nuisance sun went away again.


This perfect day.