Waxing lyrical amidst books...

A smooth skinned young man with a shrill voice tells the young woman across from him that he does in fact shave. Neither of us believe him. She begins telling him, in quite an intricate manner, about the sadomasochistic (my word) art of waxing. I'm convinced, listening to her, that neither him nor me will ever consider going under the wax.

She's so wonderfully articulate despite her braces, he's so well brought up. It's wonderfully obvious.

I'm sitting at one of my favourite Seattle coffee shops, the one that's dunked in the well-stocked Mandela Sqaure Exclusive Books. I'm in my element - sipping a cafe mocha surrounded by a hundred thousand books, while a late afternoon thunderstorm brews outside.

Oh my word, they're now discussing OCD. I hope they can't see the glimmer of my smile. They're so wonderfully unaware; I'm so unashamedly aware, despite my innocence creeping back with age.

Now he's touching her nose with his point finger (are they lovers!); he says something about the colour of her iris, in a second she snaps out a cosmetic mirror and stares intensely at her own eye.

If they ask really nicely I'll hold up the mirror for them....