Boys hang about in the cafe forecourt, dressed in immaculate national football strip, waiting for a war to start so they can broaden their horizons & have a short but appropriate life. Then a coach tour arrives, women in pink and yellow with sullen daughters. The young and the old completely, smoothly pear-shaped; or perhaps Russian doll shaped. A language of long, stretched vowels punctuated by short, abrupt, squawks somewhere between imperative and interrogative. Then the cafe cat appears as if from nowhere and weaves her way, tail up, between seats and plump calves. It’s a working day for her, like any other.