Dear lady in the coffee shop near my house, You know not what you do.

When I arrive betracksuitpanted, hair assunder, ahead of a morning of solitary script writing and an afternoon of frenzied bursts of people auditionining… you know not what you do.

When you dive across your shop towards the coffee machine and reach for the extra large cup as soon as you see me enter the shop… you know not what you do.

When you slip an extra croissant in my brown paper bag “just in case”… you know not what you do.

It’s the small joys, it’s the simple ones, it’s that kickstart to a day I thought was going to be business only.

I think if I went in there wearing a suit and looking less like the frayed end of a tether, you might charge me full price and take your time.

You are nice lady and I hope the people close to you are as nice as you are to me.

Also, your croissants are very nice.