It will be common knowledge for anyone who has dipped into my store of blogs that I like writing in cafes. They may even know that I edited a book called ‘Café Society’ with Norwegian colleague and friend Aksel Tjora. Well, after travelling around Dorking’s expanding repertoire of cafes over the last twenty years, I have settled on a favourite, the ‘Happy Elk’, to be found in the centre of town. This short piece is about my protracted visits and a sample of some of its regulars. Okay, it’s not like Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s café, which sponsors time travel if you are in the know and have access to the right seat (just as well perhaps as I do have a habit of letting my coffee get cold). But like many third places it has its charms.
The Happy Elk is not a large venue, but it has seven tables and several additional window seats. When Annette and I stop by for coffees while out shopping we have ‘our table’ and when it is occupied we edge ever closer until it becomes free, then pounce. But on a Wednesday afternoon I can usually be found hunched over my laptop and the question of which table is (more or less) redundant. Nor does background noise phase me: I can tune it all out.
The manager apart, the staff have come and gone, though most seem to have stayed awhile. All are friendly and accommodating. Unusually for me, I have yet to interrogate them on their lives and futures. Most of the younger ones can’t presumably be students as they are working very full hours. I must follow up. In any event, Annette and I are now familiars. I will here anonymise the regulars to protect them from my characterisations. Tony works on governance for the DWP. His friendliness and sociability put me to shame. I have often dwelled on my background as an only child. My longstanding predilection for solitary endeavours – like writing – has stunted any aptitude for ‘friendliness’. Tony is writing a book on governance, maybe the first of several given the way things are going. Having seen me in the café constantly either reading or writing, he approached me for advice. I emailed him a draft of my ‘Healthy Societies’, which he read, and which sparked an interest in sociology in general. I emailed him a few other sources on sociological approaches to governance. In turn I read a draft of his opening chapter, which was beautifully written. His problem was, and is, the one that all authors of books face: what is the underlying message, to whom is it being transmitted, and will it likely be effective? Every regular knows Tony and he somehow – I don’t quite understand it – combines friendliness with seeming productivity (though he did let it slip that he cheats by getting up at 5am daily to put in a writing stint). But, like it or not, his excursions to the Happy Elk are replete with conversations.
Jim comes in with his dog, which I will call Tina. I don’t like dogs in cafes, but if it has to be, and the Happy Elk seems to actually welcome them, then Tina is the one. She heads straight for regulars like Annette and me and nuzzles and nudges us until greeted with proper commitment. Then she’s off to other regulars and, a bit fickle this, absolutely anyone willing to say hello and stroke her. Not everyone is receptive. But as dogs in cafes go, Tina is an exception. Jim, companion to Tina, is a very interesting guy with a background in researching and designing underwater robots able to mimic the movements of fish. But his interests are wide-ranging and he even bought and read my ‘Healthy Societies’ from Waterstones across the road (not at all sure what he made of it though).
David has the appearance of an ageing hippy, vividly coloured hair, torn jeans. He meets in the Happy Elk to play chess with another regular, casually attired but with a less striking presence. I once asked David if they kept a record of their chess wins, and he replied with a grin: ‘no need!’ Recently we exchanged a few words, about books of all things. I think he sees himself as a kind of rebel, a free spirit, a bohemian, a Sartrean ‘being for itself’. Well, good luck to him. Maybe we will enjoy future conversations. I had better prepare myself psychologically well in advance for an interlude from the concentration that writing necessarily involves.
Another regular, I will call him George, fits into a different category. We tend to avoid him. He is, I suspect, a lonely man in his sixties or seventies, which makes our strategy questionable I guess. But he is intrusive, harbouring a laptop which he largely ignores, always searching for an opportunity to open a conversation, and oblivious to any cues that this is either not appropriate or not the right time. If a dialogue is ventured, it is quickly apparent that his talk is repetitive and banal. Okay, I am a solitary writer and have a sociability deficit, but there is something about George. Others clearly notice this too. This is Goffman territory: it is embarrassing to witness others, regulars or not, trying to escape his verbal clutches. My gratitude when the odd person does relax into stilted chat with him is real. And one person who seems to do so is Jeremy.
I don’t really know Jeremy, but he came up to ‘our table’ when noticing that I was reading a book on rowing. He explained that he was an enthusiastic rower. I was able to tell him about another regular to the Happy Elk, and this time I can use his real name because he is the author of the book I was reading (‘Driven by Demons’). He is Tim Crooks, former Olympic rowing medallist and winner of ‘Superstars’. Tim used to sing in our village choir with Annette, as did his wife Annie. Tim’s autobiography charts a fascinating journey into and out of rowing, accompanied always by what was only decades later diagnosed as bipolar disorder. The life of this exceptional athlete has been disrupted by twists and turns in his mental health. But he is good company when we meet in the Happy Elk and his book is well worth a read. I said to Jeremy that if he and Tim are ever in the café at the same time, I will introduce them.
A final character in this varied cast I shall call Jonathan. His voice is something of a croak and sounds uncomfortably forced, which I guess has its genesis in a clinical condition. Ironically, despite seeing and hearing him many times I don’t recall ever having a conversation with him, less it be a ‘thank you’ for holding the café door open. I think this is largely because he can, and does, talk the hind legs off a donkey, as the saying goes. I’ve often wondered whether the utterly predictable and unremitting exchanges he has with the staff behind the counter are enjoyed or endured by them; but all seems in excellent humour. Many regulars seem no less accommodating. Maybe they relish it. He certainly strikes as friendly and interesting. He’s just the antithesis of everything I need and want in my home-from-home table. I am the exception that proves the rule about Oldenburg’s third places. The Happy Elk is precisely the place I can be my solitary self in a bustling social setting (another is at ‘my table’ in my local, the King William IV in my village of Mickleham). I appreciate that it’s odd that I search for solitude in amicable settings. But there you go.
A photograph looking out from one of the Happy Elk’s windows features on the front cover of my second selection of poems, ‘Troubles and Trifles’. It’s an expression of gratitude and a tribute of sorts. My thanks to the manager, to her team of lovely baristas and to the dynamic mix of customers.