At The River

I miss your breakfasts. Warm croissants and raspberry jam with orange juice (NEVER from concentrate, god forbid) with bits in, proper coffee and white plates with red and orange round the edge. Radio 4 when it's being put together, and then finally, as we sit at the wooden table on white seats that aren't as white as they used to be, Radio 3 and Brahms and Chopin. Never ever Classic FM (That's just for plebs darling). The four of us, and the Saturday paper (Guardian of course. We're all Labour and Lib Dem round these parts. Middle classes enjoying the frivolity of it all). He takes the news, and she takes culture. Ben has the Guide and I take the magazine, pretending to care about it more than I do, not really reading anything unless it involves full picture pages and a comedian. And it's all frightfully civilised and we tut together at the greed of bankers and laugh at the idiocy of politicians and some Radio 3 presenter introduces another piece and we listen and shake our heads as some fools in a concert hall clap between movements (the horror, the horror of it all). The sun shines through the huge windows and the ducks sit on the dock waiting for some five year old to shower them with breadcrumbs. Ben'll talk about a gig or a band and he'll pretend to know who that is, and then, when all the coffee's gone and i'm bored of pretending to read the magazine we'll disappear off into the house or the city and ignore each other until dinner. And the pastry flakes will fall on the floor and the jam will stick to the plates and the coffee grounds will clog up the sink and the buzz from the radio will give us all headaches but it doesn't matter, because this is the civilised way to do things, and eating cereal on our laps at 3 in the afternoon with a crushing hangover just isn't quite cricket.