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I, unlike many other fervent writers, do not go searching for the inspiration of my material. Instead I follow Hesse’s mantra: “when a man seeks…his eyes see only the thing he seeks, and he is able to find nothing; finding means: being open, having no goal”, or at least that’s what I tell those who pester me about my senility. Nor am I gravitated towards the adventurous - climbing Everest or peddling across repetitive plains for hours would only be a disservice to my precious limbs (it must be noted, however, that sitting on a sofa, feet elevated on a cushion, stroking my cat, has the opposite effect).

Instead I divine throbs of inspiration from the arbitrary flickers of revelation, the seemingly innocuous and mundane that are laced with surreptitious value, or mere fleeting thoughts my mind has managed to salvage and manifest into a semi-cohesive piece. It is the former on which I base this piece on: a sweetness that came from a grieving whim deep in the busy heart of London.

On a warm summer’s eve, I stood in the middle of the pavement. People came and went, deeply self-absorbed, unaware of the idiot idly staring out onto the river of brake lights. The sun was declining mockingly, pulling faces of purples and pinks at my misfortune. I had just been dumped. Dumped and mercilessly left to my own devices – brilliant. So, with cupid’s arrow painfully askew and my heart now lumbered with a fresh vacuity, I decided I had had enough of the jesting sky – I went for a walk.

I’d thought that meandering through the streets of London would shake it off, but it proved to be futile; they’re annoyingly harbouring, those post-break up thoughts, aren’t they? So, craving a new direction, I went into the nearest open door.

‘Turner’s Vegan Café’ was to be my refuge that evening. Do not judge. I was in a bad place and it was there with its open arms, the perfect rebound. Like its unambiguous title, the place was palpably dry. Slow kill-me-now indie music pervaded it, endowing the place with a melancholic dreariness that just so happened to be attuned with my inner condition. The walls were whitewashed, the shelves ornamented with strange limp cacti, and the workers only occasionally acknowledged my existence with a slight raise of their thick eyebrows, all of which I suppose appeals to the millennial minimalist. Save except a few hipsters who, despite their obdurate defiance, had withered in their lack of meat consumption, the place was empty.

I ordered an ‘exotic’ concoction by the name of ‘It Takes 2 to Mango’ – essentially a mango and yogurt smoothie – and necked it down. I ordered a few more and just drowned my sorrows in Vitamin C. And so there I was: an incongruous figure amongst hippy Nighthawks, lamenting my love, searching for pastures new – maybe I’ll grow a beard like that guy and become a vegan; I like kiwis and potatoes, and meat is murder, right? – when suddenly the abundance of four of us were told to exit ‘only temporarily, mate, just for a minute or two’. 

Image Credits: 10best.com