Looking out from the train carriage window the incessant drizzle spattering against the glass as the field's race by. Excited by at last meeting the person who inspired pen to paper and assisted and nurture a fledgling virgin writer. Apprehensive about the meeting now. It seemed when first suggested such a good idea. Butterflies jumping like spring lambs in the pit of the stomach.
Pulling out the phone and flicking to the text,
"See you Wednesday at 3.00 pm at the Artisan café at 157 Above Bar Street, Guildhall Square."
Slowly tracing the words with a finger feeling a tingle of excitement.
The lush countryside turns to suburban housing then more tightly packed housing as the train slows pulling into Southampton Central.
The guard announces over the speaker,
"The next stop is Southampton Central, please take all your possessions with you."
A general melee begins as people get ready to leave. Glancing down at the phone, 2.00 pm, thinking,
'Got here in time now to find it.'
Slipping on the old weather-beaten green Mack and joining the queue to leave the train. Walking out of the station checking the phone for directions feeling the excitement building. Firstly, left towards the Western Esplanade, then left over the footbridge. Pulling up the hood against the relentless rainfall. The crowds scurrying knowing exactly where to go. Right, on to Blechnyden Terrace and onto West Park Road thinking,
'The Guildhall should be phew yes on the left, not far off.'
Time: 2.30 PM, heart racing as D-day approaches.
The phone rings, as a text arrives,
"Have you got to here yet? I will be there on time."
Smiling texting back,
"Just arrived, dam this bloody wet weather. I thought it is was always nice down south."
Turning right onto West Marland Place spotting the stairway leading up to the Café. Looking at them feel pensive, thinking
'I have to do this.'
Ping "You should be used to soggy weather :P, see you soon B."
Heart thumping now feeling such a mixture of excitement and dread. Taking off the Mack in the hallway and shaking off the water. Trembling, it is because of the swiftly approaching encounter or just cold, thinking,
'Feels like a job interview.'
Walking slowly up the stairs peering around the open-plan café. A scattering of older ladies enjoying an afternoon natter. Relieved not to see anyone younger waiting. A young waitress stands at the reception desk.
"Take a seat, someone will pop along and take you to order," she explains.
Wandering over to a corner chair and slumping down. The menu provoking a smile, "Let us Know your Thoughts".
'God my thoughts, I could write a book about them,' thinking.
