When I was at University in Leeds, all those years ago, the days were short, the nights long, and coffee consumption prolific. Between stints in the library a group of pretentious-theory-obsessed-lit-freak-English students would gather on the steps of the Parkinson Building, a white wedding cake affair of a building, reminiscent of a Post Office from Colonial days. We'd chat, a few people would smoke, and we'd drink coffee from Bakery 164 across the street. They did the best coffee - had there been a Starbucks they would certainly have given them a run for their money. The cups were plain white, and the caffeine hidden inside two espressos certainly made the afternoon go faster.
Memory is subjective. I must have spent hours sitting on those steps, but the memory has been reduced to a small package of thought... this morning I'm sitting on our new L-shaped couch thinking of how I'd love a coffee but am too lazy to get up and boil the kettle. That thought reminded me of those cold steps, and there I am.
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