A smiling waiter brings our food over, and we sit in the shade, watch the world amble by beneath the sun, and swap stories and anecdotes, the rich smell of coffee and cigarette smoke from a man at the next table swirling around us. Mum’s ex Den used to smoke roll-ups, standing by the front door, blowing the smoke into the outside, as I hung off the handle and gave him an hour-by-hour account of my school day. I love the smell, and I feel a warm settling, as if there’s a cat curled up, snuggled on my lap.
I need to fix my life!
