Barefoot Bakery sits on North Parade. It’s one of my favourite coffee spots in Oxford, partly because the coffee is good, but mostly because it’s painted baby pink and sells a tasty PB banana bread.
Although the place is sickeningly Millennial, I’ve had a couple of encounters here with the the Silent Generation:
Maggie
It was the last warm day of the year, and I sat at the outside table with my laptop. Suddenly, an old woman with blue eyeshadow stood over me. She asked if she could sit on the spare chair opposite, and in her hand was a takeaway curry box filled with chicken korma.
I said she could but made a point to stare at my screen like I was solving the Da Vinci Code. I had no intention to start a conversation with the colourful elderly woman, but as she ate her curry, I felt her eyes on me. After a few minutes, the staring got too much, so I closed my laptop. Her face lit up.
Her name was Maggie, and she was 84.
We spoke about travelling, religion, and how her purple coat was given to her by an air hostess on her way to New Zealand. We somehow ended up exchanging funeral stories. She recalled how she went to her friend’s wake, and the family were standing around the late woman’s dining room table, dividing up the chairs between themselves.
She then shared the story of her husband’s funeral, and how disappointed she was with the priest.
Maggie lived alone now, but her neighbour would bring her a bag of food from Waitrose every Friday afternoon. The bag included bread, milk, and a treat: chocolate yoghurts, which she devoured before the weekend. There was also always a block of cheddar cheese. Maggie hated the cheese but resisted telling her neighbour this, worried she would sound ungrateful.
We spoke for over an hour before Maggie had to leave. She asked if I visited Barefoot often, and I told her I did. We agreed to meet again, but I haven’t seen her since.
Unidentified Man
A few months later, in the Spring, I was waiting for a coffee date on a Wednesday morning. It was quiet, with only one other girl in the corner. She was tapping her iPad as if she was killing thousands of tiny bugs with her finger.
A white-haired man wobbled in. He was wearing a corduroy waistcoat and one of those film noir detective hats.
“Excuse me, do you have toilets?” He asked the young barrister.
“We do, but..err… it’s only for staff and pregnant women.”
“That’s good,” The Old Man said, “because I identify as a pregnant woman.”
With that, me and the other girl laughed out loud, and he was shown the toilet.
THE QUACK 