bacon, brie and avocado on white, toasted.

The sandwich place up the street where I work is actually a bar. A huge, converted barn type of bar. And there’s a small room next to the kitchen, where a counter, a toaster, baps and bananas are on display. This is where I queue up everyday around 1, usually to buy a high fat content lunch. Sometimes I go easy on myself and get the soup of the day, which is usually a vegetable one; usually a vegetable with hair, like carrot & coriander or potato & leek. They make good soups, these people.
The place also doubles (triples?) as a theatre on some weekends. A rickety staircase across the forecourt, between the bar entrance and the next building takes you to an upstairs ‘playhouse’ where weird and wonderful pieces are oft performed. Today there was a yellow poster there with a gay-looking young man with his hand down his g- string front. Yep, they could have left more to the imagination.
The guy behind the sandwich counter reminds me of Hugh Grant’s lodger in ‘Notting Hill’. Similar hair, similar build, similar dopey expression. But he multitasks expertly; I haven’t seen him toast the coffee or butter the soup yet, even though he often takes on 5 orders at a go.

North London normal life continues.