Joycee is adjusting to her new life as a sole trader, that is, no wages and your time is your own. It means that we get to hang out during the day when we work together on some stuff as I’m her technical advisor and she’s been a welcome extra set of hands on some of my contracts. It’s all good. By the way, although I’m helping with technical and engineering aspects of her projects with that fancy title, when she’s not looking, in my mind I’m actually working for UNIT and I’m actually the scientific advisor. She looks at me funny when I reply to a summons with “What is it now Brigadier?”
Also we get opportunities for cuppas, both in cafes and sitting in the motor which as anyone who has spent time with me will know immediately becomes a stakeout scenario where passers-by are suspects with back-stories and every opening door sets alarm bells ringing and engines revving.
Last week we happened on one cafe in the city centre down a back street near such wonderful shops as Strungout Guitars, Record Fayre and Mr Benn. It’s decor was red and black, the cakes were huge, and I mean that, like tractor tyres covered on icing and fruit. In the back the cakemaster beats these monsters into reality and the occupants of the eclectic furniture selection hoover them all up. A delightful place, reasonably priced and home to all, students, old ladies in hunting pairs, mums with kids and layabouts like ourselves.
It’s called Once Upon a Tart. And, that’s where the trouble begins.
I can’t remember the name, it’s dead unusual, but still I have nothing to hold the words for some reason. I keep bringing it up in conversation “We had these cakes, you wouldn’t believe this, it’s called… er…” It’s really annoying, not once have I successfully recalled the name of the place when enthusing about its wares. I look like a cake deprived/depraved stupid or like I’ve had my batteries pulled out. Not good.
So, I endeavoured to create a mental picture of the name, something to conjure up the words instantly with just a single thought to restore my friend’s and family’s confidence in my mental faculties. It’s tried and tested system, I sighed with relief, it’s a minor thing really, but still frustrating.
Went to see my folks and got to chatting over a cuppa. “Oh, wait till I tell you this, you should go with Jimmy or come with us, the cakes will knock you flat, it’s decorated like something out of a fairy tale…”
“Oh” says Mother “What’s it called?”
I snapped into mental sprint mode, I retrieved the file, scanned it for the image and confidently issued the answer with a smile…
“It’s called Woke up with a Hooker”