An Irregular Regular

I started my fifth week of in town work this week. This also hailed the beginning of my fifth week of buying my self lunch instead of waking up early enough to make it - something I did actually do once.

With the Summer of Subway drawing to a close as the last of my 80 sub-club cards were handed over, I've had to come to terms with the choice and price of buying lunch from somewhere else. Although it could never match it, I found a café nearby to my office building that came close. A solid range of tasty meals that weren’t hard on the wallet, combined with a quiet table to sit at and a newspaper to read kept me coming back. Coming back… regularly…

I remarked to somebody, on one of those train rides home from work at peak hour where you inevitably sit with someone you know from somewhere, that I was practically becoming a regular at this café. I was excited about it, initially: friendly staff saying hello to me; guesses as to what my order would be; larger portion sizes although that may have been placebo. I envisioned a good future. Perhaps a paper always saved for me, a few extra chips and even, in my wildest dreams, the trust of a tab.

But things were moving too fast. Everyone kept asking how I was when I walked in and I felt predictable, vulnerable. I was creeped out. I started to distance myself, instead seeking more expensive lunches from further away. I tried to go back today and was greeted by their friendly smiles behind which hid a slight defensiveness about my absence. The extra slice of cheese on my burger with the lot revealed how much they liked me and appreciated my patronage.

I scraped the last of my food onto the fork and ate it. Moments later my plate was being collected by the waitress and I was waved a goodbye and wished a happy day. It was at that moment I knew I would never eat there again.