A Bit of Random Writing…

Gardener sat in a café in the central city; he hadn’t even looked at its name before he’d gone in. He concentrated on being as anonymous as he could at a small table tucked away in a dark corner away from the windows. All around him were men in expensive suits wearing the smug expressions of those who knew that ‘they were alright Jack.’ The people here were full of cash and didn’t mind letting the world know. Gardener pitied the poor person who wasn’t part of this so-called elite; they wouldn’t survive an hour in here. Designer beers adorned the tables next to gourmet food stacked high on plates. There was no sign of a Saturn Draught, UXB, or even an Andromeda Dry anywhere, just traditional Belgian beers from Earth intermixed with carefully tended glasses of wine. Gardener was almost convinced that they knew the difference.

Outside a steady stream of people frowned their way onwards along the pavement under the harsh gaze of the sun, carrying the heat that sat squarely on their shoulders. They walked in a trance looking straight ahead and slightly down. Gardener wondered if they saw the memorial paving stones placed at equidistant intervals to celebrate the West Australians of the Year. Did they see the name Florence Hummerston and wonder what it was that she did? And how good a year did Dennis Lillee have when he received the honour?

He ordered a toasted sandwich and cup of coffee and received a dirty look in response. He wasn’t spending enough. He shouldn’t be there.
For the next half-an-hour he sat hunched over a table slowly eating his food and sipping his coffee while looking at a paper that he wasn’t reading. He knew that people would be looking for him – bad people. Common sense told Gardener that he would be unlucky to be seen, but anybody who could find him in the desert here on Earth clearly had resources and connections; friends with influence.

The sound of laughter barged in on his thoughts. A tall blonde guy in a pinstripe suit was laughing at his own joke. His colleagues were grimacing but he didn’t notice as his ample stomach threatened to escape from his white shirt and the long-suffering buttons that held it together were no longer able to hide behind the yellow silk tie that had fallen to one side. His liquid lunch was winning the battle. Gardener wanted to hit him, tell him that he was an arsehole, that nobody found him funny, and that he should crawl off back to his office to snooze away the afternoon. But he didn’t. He just gritted his teeth and carried on trying to fade into the scenery. He must have succeeded because nobody came near him, not even a waitress.

About George Fripley
I am a writer who enjoys writing humour, satire, poetry and sometimes a bit of philosophy. I live in Perth, Western Australia and occasionally get a poem or article published. It's all good fun! I have two books available for unwary readers, Grudges, Rumours and Drama Queens- The Civil Servant's Manual (This contains all that anybody could ever want to know about why government runs so slowly) and More Gravy Please! - the Politician's Handbook. (available through Amazon). Real name Peter Tapsell...just started off writing under a pseudonym and kept going.

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