Precious writing time, and the guy in the coffee shop

Some thoughts on politeness, boundaries and expectation

My opportunities to write are very limited at the moment. I get up early, between 5.30 and 6 am, and try to go for a walk or do some yoga (which sounds virtuous, doesn’t it, but the walk is sanity exercise, and the yoga is an ongoing attempt to help my very sore back!). Then I head to a café that’s only minutes from where I live, so I can get in 60 to 90 minutes of uninterrupted writing before my kids are up and ready to go. At the moment I’m homeschooling both of them so they take precedence until mid-afternoon, when I try to go back to work admin and marketing tasks – rarely writing much because I’m pretty tired by then and not as productive. The rest of my standard weekday is a combination of taxiing the girls to their many activities, meal prep and organising for the next day, sneaking in some reading or whatever else I can, before I fall asleep ready to repeat the process tomorrow.

That’s just a standard day. I always try to compartmentalise so I can focus on one thing at a time, but there’s a litany of interruptions – health appointments for me and the girls, endless household jobs, etc etc etc - you know the drill - and they all impact the plan. Plus I want to hang out with family and friends and do the fun stuff whenever possible! So while people often marvel at how I fit it all in, the truth is that it’s bloody hard work: akin to navigating a jigsaw puzzle that continually morphs, so the pieces that fitted yesterday don’t work today. I know many others will understand this conundrum, the constant rebalancing of priorities and pushing back against the overwhelm, and I have lots of empathy for how much we’re all trying to juggle. I want to champion everyone who keeps on trying to carve out time for their own creativity and self-care in whatever demanding environment they’re faced with – particularly women, who often take on a considerable amount of practical and emotional labour.

This is why I see my ongoing hotel time (usually a couple of times a month) as essential to my working life, and it’s now where I do the majority of my novel-writing. I wrote about this in a previous Substack, which you can read here:

A (hotel) room of one's own. Validating and celebrating creative practice.

However, hotels are expensive, and need to be spaced out. In between them, I have to keep my writing juices flowing, and so the 60-90 minutes of café time each morning has become very important to me. It’s why I’m able to write this now, and it’s time that I've carved out for myself through dedication to my early starts.

Most regulars in the coffee shop leave me alone, but in recent months, one older man went out of his way to be friendly. To begin with, I made the mistake of being nice back, exchanging pleasantries and the odd conversation. Then he slid into the seat in front of me one day, uninvited, while I was working, and began telling me one of his stories, which he thought would make a good book. On another occasion he came to interrupt me to say he’d imagined me and my husband walking away from the coffee shop one day as the ‘dot dot dot’ moment of one of Neville Shute’s implied sex scenes (!). As my friendliness rapidly waned, and my choice of table became the furthest spot from his, tucked away from his natural route in and out of the cafe, he has continued to insist we say hello and goodbye to one another whenever possible. He once came to stand right in front of my out-of-the-way table and waited for me to look up and notice him, whereupon he said a very firm, ‘Good morning’. For the past few months, I have been aware of him every day, his expectation of an interaction, at least a polite greeting or a ‘Have a nice day’, because I could do that much for him, couldn’t I? I should really appease this stranger, who is often comfortable enough to say ‘Hello trouble’ to me when he sees me, as though it’s an endearment. This man who thinks it’s okay to disrupt my work/thinking space to make sure that he is polite, and I am polite back.

He is not the only one. Another man once thought it was okay to sit behind me and read over my shoulder, and then asked me a lot of very intrusive questions before proceeding to tell me all about his divorce and his vasectomy! Eventually, I informed him I was trying to work, and he looked furious at my impertinence. I could only be grateful he wasn’t a regular.

These men have no idea that they are the transgressors in such situations, or of the effect they have. In their eyes, they are just trying to be friendly. I have considered finding other cafes where I can work in peace, but it would involve a drive, and this one has everything I need. I make it clear that this is my work time, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Men like this can only see that, when they have something to say, I am not reacting to them in the way they expect me to. However, I know that if I respond with enthusiasm or kindness, more liberties will be taken, and more boundaries will be breached. I know that if I continue to be nice to this man in the coffee shop, I will have to listen as he regales me with whatever tale he thinks of, whenever he feels like it, all with an uncomfortable familiarity and no question as to whether it’s an appropriate time for me. So I am no longer sociable. I am not the person I would naturally be, saying a cheery hello as I pass by.

In response, my fellow coffee-shop patron grows slightly more uncertain by the day at my aloof behaviour. He must have noticed my lack of acknowledgement as I place my order near his regular table, with my earbuds in, even though they’re not always playing. Nevertheless, he still makes a point of calling out to me as he leaves, although he has to raise his voice now, because my table is at the farthest end of the function room. He’s getting the message - he’s not as friendly as he used to be - but for now he’ll continue to break my concentration to ensure we have our daily pleasantries. I wonder what he thinks as he walks away from my delayed, unenthusiastic response. Perhaps he’s confused by how impolite and surly I’ve turned out to be. 

Because politeness is what matters here. Isn’t it?