writing letters

I had a lot of correspondence to catch up on this morning, so I took it to the newly opened coffee shop at 320 Creek Road in Greenwich. Do stop by it if you’re in the centre and fancy a hot drink and a nibble: if you’re next to the Cutty Sark, go PAST Starbucks and take the first right, and it’s just there, before you get to ‘Up the Creek’ comedy club. It was staffed by a very nice, slightly-younger-Philip-Pullman-look-alike named Jiff (actually Jeff, he’s a Kiwi). Jeff’s son roasts the coffee beans himself at London Coffee Roasters. The coffee shop shares the space with a vintage clothing guy from the market and a record seller, so the whole place has a sort of High Fidelity feel to it. I bought a nutty-looking pillbox hat with feathers for a decent price and I am curious whether I will have the guts to wear it.

Edit: I went back and checked the coffee shop’s name, it’s the Beehive and correction, Jeff is an Aussie, but lived in New Zealand for a long time.

Here’s a little picture I drew on the corner of one of my letters. It was too early to think hard, so it looks very much like the lovely Indian sack hanging below the till.

My sister’s boyfriend, Mike, just wrote a fascinating article for the Seattle PI about a local guy who lives in a tree house and refuses to leave. He and my sister hung out with him up there for awhile until she got fed up with his squirrels.