Kristiana Reed restores our faith
For the last few weeks, I’ve been coming to Jacqueline’s for lunch and when I say lunch I mean a diet coke and cream tea – English breakfast. It’s my favourite tea room with its assorted table cloths, dark wood and 1940s crockery adorning every shelf and up-cycled trunk screwed to the wall. A gramophone crackles in the corner, the colour of smudged brass. Every waitress wears a button up cardigan and sways, away with the fairies, to world war two melodies.
The man at the table for two behind me is tapping his feet to a different beat, circling thumb around finger and chewing gum. My guess is, he is a city boy. He’s wearing trainers and denim but the navy fisherman smock is throwing me off. He is drinking a ginger beer – his knuckles turning yellow as he makes a fist with the glass. He has aged…
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