Cha Cha Cha

Cha Cha Cha

I walked into Cassiobury Park, wearing an anonymous navy blue suit, (and shirt, and tie). I was feeling, not happy, but content. The slightly worn-out jacket was folded in my courier bag, my tie loosened, and collar button undone with the sleeves rolled up. Uniform adapted to the weather.

There were, as usual, the old people walking their dogs. Old people are pleasant, and the dogs are normally a joy, so I cheerfully greeted them as I passed and bid them good day. I made sure to avoid the sweaty cyclists storming though everyone on their steeds of metal, and the melting joggers, going round, and round, and round...

But none of this really concerned me. I knew why I was here, with no lectures for the rest of the day. I was hungry, and in need of refreshment. I was headed for Cha Cha Cha.

Twenty years earlier, the park's tea-houses set ablaze for no reason in particular. Cha Cha Cha is what some bright spark came up with when the Mayor wanted to do something with them.

As I approached the homely cottage, I saw park benches and picnic tables gathered neatly around the outside, with some people eating and drinking.

I pushed through the white double doors. I was greeted with the most tempting smell of warm bread and hot coffee. The furniture emphasised the homeliness of the whitewashed interior with plain, pine tables and chairs, big comfy sofas surrounding a low coffee table.

The café is mostly empty, and people at the tables are playing chess, discussing things, generally chilling, as are the guys at the big sofas, who are also reading books from the window-sill. The miniature library is generally fantasy, occult, and ghost stories and the like. Ripping yarns abound, along with more surreal books.

The shop doubled as a gallery full of art for sale from local artists, that ranged from rural landscapes from around the park - trees, quaint bridges over canals - to urban landscapes - black monoliths where the skies wash from angry sunset reds to deep sleepy blues.

The whitewashed walls, unhurried atmosphere, the fine art on the walls, and the chilled-out jazz and funk music left me, as if by magic, relaxed.

I walked up to the counter and what a counter it was, a strange, but oddly fitting mess of curves of white, blue mosaic and navy glass bottles, which had a matching counter at the adjoining wall, the two split to accommodate a smaller door that served as the fire exit.

I ordered a meal, Pitta and houmous, and my usual mug of mocha, with whipped cream and chocolate powder. And because they knew me, I got Marshmallows as well. They gave me a wooden spoon with a number on it to keep for when my meal was done.

Meanwhile I amused myself with my hot drink at my table. I picked up a teaspoon and used it on the cream, savouring each cool, creamy, chewy mouthful, then moving onto the drink itself while the assistant tended to other customers.

The assorted bebop jazz and dance music filled the atmosphere and convinced me to stay and just hang. So I calmly sipped my Mocha, engaged in a conversation about how Cha Cha Cha was getting popular, the recent weather, general chat.

When my meal was ready, I went to the counter myself and carried my meal and Mocha over to my table. Which was now taken by someone else. A waiter came and opened up the concertina series of doors to reveal a small dining room where the drama class was practising. The room was quite bare save for a large dining table with eight or so chairs. The table had been moved to the side of the room, and chairs were in use as props. The students were standing on the furniture in strange poses. Thoroughly confused, I apologised and left for the sofa area.

Thankfully, there was a place free, and I set down my coffee and plate and claimed the neighbouring seat with my bag, grabbed a small, thin anthology off the shelf.