Ladies [and gentlemen] Who Lunch

Cafe Rouge on James Street near Selfriges. Sitting in the sunshine (lovely March sunshine with enough warmth to not have cold hands when ungloved, to feel the benefit on the face and enjoy the brightness on the eyes) drinking cafe mocha waiting for the boyfiend.

Two businessmen take coffee - one has folded his jacket inside out and laid it over his knee and discarded his tie. Positively basking.

Two Russian girls, one eating, one nursing a cafe latte.

Three old posh ladies. Strange assortment of clothing. One in particular must be in from the county. Chain smoking. Drinking claret. Bloated, reddened from weathering. Laughing rauchously and sharing pictures of grandchildren and stories of children's successes (and divorces).

French tourists drinking coffee. Suprisingly un-chic, dressed in jeans and fleece which I always find at odds with their reputation.

The businessmen move onto beer. The other Russian takes a meal while her companian smokes. The three posh ladies study some foxton's propety sheets of a potential purchase that one of them will make. Discuss in some detail the merits of the windows. Chain-smoking lady is on her sixth cigarette. Mostly held aloft betwee thick fingers, elbow on the table. Occassionally dragging on it with a creamy orange lipsticked mouth. Flicking ash off its end into a glass ashtray.

Boyfiend arrives, and I go and pay.