Coffee shops are sociological choices

Back at hospital today, for more x rays and ultrasounds, and an epic three hour wait to see my frazzled orthopaedic consultant. Gaps between each of my four appointments at hospital today meant I had time to tank up on overpriced tea and coffee and a bewildering range of croissants, toasties and pastries at the array of cafes near the hospital. I've been to this hospital so many times now that I've become well acquainted with these cafes, and though in the early days I could hardly tell one from the other, in recent months their unique propositions have become a lot clearer, not least from their clientele. And the division is really quite hilarious. First up, Starbucks. Starbucks is constantly busy because although it does not charge much less than its cutesie village-green neighbours, it manages to deliver its goods with the air of one who knows your time is valuable and you don't want to spend it doing the Times Cryptic Crossword. So commuters love it. But, interestingly, so do the post natal groups. Starbucks opposite the hospital is HEAVING for the best part of the day with saggy post natal Mums and their bawling newborns, who clearly coalesce for some group therapy, and presumably have decided that Starbucks is already so noisy with the constant slam of cups and bawling of TWO SKINNY LATTES TO GO (or whatever) that the collective bawling of their bewildered offspring will go unnoticed. And they're right about that. Of course those who do notice, vote with their feet and head to the other cafes, but there too there are distinct social differences. The artisan bakery with the "tearoom" that looks as if it's been added as a chi chi afterthought, is populated by grey haired blokes in their fifties who look like playwrights. The cafe nearest the hospital, the only one with a front that is totally open ie no door to squeeze through, is where orthopaedics go. Most days it's a health hazard for any able bodied person because of the risk of tripping over crutches that are splayed across the floor. The one halfway up the hill, with tasteful hanging baskets, wooden slab tables, is for ladies who lunch with tiny children in prep school uniform.  The one with the word "OLD" which is in fact spelt "OLDE" is frequented by much older women in hobo clothes with paint stains on their hands. My problem is, the absence of cafe for my type, which I would define loosely as, wild haired, harried working Mum whose clothes look as if she threw them on in the dark.. So I end up at the Costa coffee on the hospital forecourt which is frequented by inpatient escapees desperate for a fag. I don't smoke so I look a bit lonely, but I have to admit that even though they are all in hospital gowns, pyjamas or ratty looking trackie bottoms, with drips hanging off them, I do, worryingly, fit in with the general look. There is a terrible message in there somewhere.