I'm being bullied by a 70 year-old man.

So the cafe I normally go and write in
every morning- the one with the fit grey-haired man who I have yet to
find the nerve to smile at, let alone talk to- has been closed for
renovation. This means I have had to seek
cappuccino-and-vagina-writing solace elsewhere.

I picked a cafe close to work because I
had never been in it when more then 4 people had occupied tables, so
it was quiet enough to work in, and it meant that well. I was was
close to work. The place is run by two old guys who in my imagination
I call the Thin Old Man and the Fat Old Man because my imagination is
tired from inventing synonyms for the word fuck and producing
detailed fantasies of how Ryan Gosling would be all, 'Hey girl...' in
a conversation opener that would undoubtedly conclude with me sat in
his face. The bar is also totes my favourite of all the places
because they once gave me free chocolate.

Yes, emotionally I do operate like a
seal: I'll clap and do tricks if you feed me, otherwise I'm just not
bothered.

I arrive at 9 a.m. every morning, and
stay until just before 1. I like to order more than just a coffee
because that takes the piss, right? To occupy a table for four hours
with a one euro coffee? So on my first day there I led with coffee
and a croissant, and then after an hour and half requested colazione
numero due- breakfast number
two, which made the Thin Old Man laugh, so I figured I was okay to
sit for a little while longer.

On the
second day, at about ten thirty, the Thin Old Man approached my table
and said, 'Colazione numero due?' and
I laughed just like he had done the day before and said okay because
evidently, we had a private joke and this made my insides happy.

On the third day I
ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice in between my two breakfasts,
which I took right after my first bathroom break. This seemed to
confuse the Thin Old Man but to his credit he rolled with the plan
change and made sure to tell me he had given me the best oranges and
that this juice was the best of all the juices.

By the fourth day,
juice wasn't an option but was mandatory, and so by day five my day
was set out as:

9 a.m. Arrive and
have first breakfast of cappuccino and croissant.

10.30 a.m. Toilet
break and a fresh orange juice.

11.30 a.m. Another toilet break and
colazione numero due

12.30 p.m. Free
chocolate and a glass of water

1 p.m. Select
something for lunch, pay, and go.

The Thin Old Man
and I have developed such a relationship that now he doesn't even ask
me if I want Breakfast Number Two anymore. I arrive, sit down, he
brings me a croissant and luke-warm cappuccino so I can drink it right
away, and I set to work. Then I know when to take my toilet breaks
because he tells me, because now he knows my schedule. And when I get
back, fresh orange juice, or breakfast 2 with a slightly hotter
coffee this time, or a three-course meal fit for the first-born
prodigal son of saints is waiting for me.

It's all quite
lovely, in an overbearing sort of a way.

Except that now,
I'm not allowed to change my routine. It's been two weeks in this new
cafe and when I arrived late one day because I'd been Skyping with
Mama, THE GUY WAS TOTALLY PISSED OFF AT ME.

And it threw out
the schedule, so that I needed a toilet break only an hour after I
arrived, which meant I ordered my orange juice 30 minutes early, and
then when I ASKED for collazione numero due instead of WAITING
TO BE TOLD IT WAS READY he huffed and puffed and now I feel like I've
upset my grandad, which means that even though my inclination is to
be all DUDE. IT'S MY BREAKFAST AND I DECIDE WHO AND WHAT AND WHEN
really I'm just afraid that if I say the wrong thing he might have a
heart attack and die because he really does look quite frail, and so
I'm stuck in this cycle of DO AS HE SAYS, LAURA, juxtaposed with FUCK
OFF, THIN OLD GUY WHO I CAN KNOCK DOWN WITH ONLY ONE PARTICULARLY
STRONG OUT-BREATH. But then I see him all old and thin and guy-like
behind the bar, polishing his glasses, and I just let him tell me
what to do because if I don't, well. What if I kill him?

I can't have that
on my conscience.

Also: I don't have
any granddads of my own, so I am loathe to give up this imaginary
family that I invented in my head.

Also: yes, the
family whereby Ryan Gosling is the father of my children and my
grandfather is the old guy who makes my coffee.

So I eat the
pastries, and the chocolate, and drink the two cappuccini and the
glass of water and anything else Granddad decides I should have
because I am too afraid not to, and all the time I do it knowing that
I had a bowl of cereal before I left the house so basically I am
eating an entire day's worth of food before noon and there is not a
single thing I can do about it except act like that is totally normal
and that I don't mind at all.

Okay, it is totally
normal and I don't mind at all.

And that's the
story of how I became even more of a chubby little food-lover. NOT. MY.
FAULT.