Machiatto Anthropology (part three)

I have a confession to make, I am not loyal.

 

Before my wife comes over with hands on hips and lips so thin (where do they learn that look). Let me clarify my statement. We have a new coffee shop in our small town. While at the moment I still prefer Café Nero, Coffee #1 is calling me. It has a cosy interior, I like the eclectic collection of furniture sourced from chapels, while the fire place is false the ambience is not. The only down side is a lack of WiFi. Before anyone accuses me on my fickle nature, Café Nero supplanted Costa Coffee. I will openly plead guilty to the charge set before me. But I will still argue my case, I seek comfort. I prefer a big soft settee that moulds around me to the fashionable leather couch that adorns executive apartments. A meal of stew and dumplings will always be chosen over exquisite cuisine. Lastly you will more often find me in warm jumpers and loose jeans than tailored suits, and highly polished shoes. (Another blog on polishing shoes to follow soon).

 

It is this that brings me to today’s observation, While sitting waiting for my dear suffering wife to bring me my coffee, two ladies in their late twenties early thirties vacated their table. Both were dressed much like a winter Next or Boden advert. As one of these ladies walked of to powder her nose, her companion cast a critical eye over her as she walked away. The raised eyebrow and slightly thinning lips told me that she did not either approve of her friends choice of clothing (a hip length chunky knitted jumper, jeans and a whisper thin scarf). Or more likely in that glance she took in her friends physic, judged any weight loss, or gain. With that glance was probably able to tell her exact measurements. She then stood a little straighter in the back. Smoothed down her own jeans and buttoned her coat. I caught her looking at her reflection in the glass of the window, and then the adjusted her hair, and smiled as her friend returned. The smile spread across the face she became animated as they kissed on the cheek to say goodbye to each other and they both left the coffee house.

 

I had good look around the rest of the customers, to see if any of the others displayed similar habits. One group of suited business types were gathered around a table showing signs of tension, an elderly couple in the easy chairs wrapped up against the cold even in the building. A couple of mothers relaxing in the leather settee as their offspring slept in pushchairs laden with bags. I suppose they all spent time choosing their clothes that morning, all for different purposes and choosing what they wore for different reasons. The two ladies earlier mentioned conscious of their appearance and the unspoken opinion of their coffee date. The elderly couple for warmth, the business type were probably the easiest choosing the unofficial uniform of suit and tie. Then I thought about my own attire, why am I wearing what I am? Did I consciously choose my shirt, and jumper combo? Or as is the case most of the time I pull clothes out of my wardrobe I know I will be comfortable, clean, and will fit. Why am I wearing this coat, I have four or five coats to choose from why this one?

 

It was then my wife arrived at the table, with my coffee brining me out of my thoughts an into the real world, realising that it really did not matter what I wore because unless you in a lime green suit and a four foot purple hat you are probably invisible to everyone around you as they are more concerned about their own lives, than what a complete stranger is wearing.

 

 

See you all again

 

Jamie

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s