Morning coffee, a writer’s routine.

Windy. Blowing half a gale, actually. Rain in the air. The sea is wild, waves booming across the sea wall into the marine lake. Great day for windsurfing, not that I give the prospect much thought. I wrap myself up, dressed for warmth and comfort rather than style. Not that I ever do anything else.

Outside now. Cold, not many people about. Sensible. I walk briskly, bustling along, eyes screwed up against the elements. Finally, the reason for this journey, more of an expedition than a journey today, comes into sight. I push on the door, push harder as it sticks when there’s rain about, and stumble inside. There’s warmth here, instant gratification. I order my usual, large latte, semi-skimmed, and start to remove layers of clothing.

Early, so I get one of the leather armchairs. Good. I riffle through the papers: Telegraph, Times, Independent, Liverpool Daily Post , all here. A smartly attired woman in the corner, pot of tea and toasted teacake, is reading the Guardian. Mustn’t grumble. I take a selection back to my lair and start to read. Front pages, skimmed, then the main course, the sports sections. It’s Saturday so the papers are bigger, packed with extra inserts, most of which I disregard. Appointments, that’s jobs then, er, no thanks. I put that to one side.

My coffee arrives. Perfect. With a biscuit peeping shyly from behind the mug. The waitress winks at me. I’m a regular, get regular’s perks. I wink back and, on the spur of the moment, order toast. White, brown or granary? God, the pressures of life these days! I plump for granary, healthy option.

I’ve read most of the important stuff by now, toast has long gone, but I’m in no rush to venture outside. I glance around at my fellow customers, often a good source of material for a writer. Mmm, interesting.

The man in the corner, cappuccino, with chocolate topping, slice of cake, is staring into space, ear-buds in place. A teardrop tattoo at the corner of his right eye and a spider’s web below, creeping up from below his shirt collar to cover his neck gave out a message that contradicted the smart suit and immaculately polished shoes. Right profile, hardcore biker; left profile, city slicker. Interesting contrast.

The Guardian reader leaves and I’m straight across to grab it, even before the door closes behind her. A woman I vaguely know – she’s a neighbour although we’ve never spoken – half opens the door and peers inside. She has a lived-in face. One that had known hard times and taken some tough decisions along the way. Many of them being wrong decisions, or so it appears to me. I don’t know her, of course I don’t, but I’m a writer. I make assumptions. She looks at me, gives a faint nod of recognition which I return in kind, closes the door again. No-one here she wants to see? I control my feelings of inadequacy, she had other plans, it wasn’t just my presence that deterred her.

The waitress comes over for a chat. Not hinting I should buy another coffee or bugger off. Not that sort of place. She tells me about her plans for the weekend. They sound exhausting.

Finally, I can’t put it off any longer. The rain has stopped, the wind is no longer battering the steamed-up windows. I add layers of clothing, pay for my coffee and toast, leave a tip in the jar on the counter. See you tomorrow’ the girl in the back kitchen sings out. I nod, wave, walk to the door.

Outside, it’s foul. Worse than it was only a minute ago. A lot worse. I turn up my collar and set off back, stepping over puddles that weren’t here before. Five minutes and I’ll be back home. Warm. Dry. Content.