Sunday, January 31, 2016

Hothouse



It's a slow jazz café pretending not to be, the music and the dust floors and the wooden tables and the leather couches meaning somebody had an awful lot of money to spend here.

It smells like soup and aftershave, whose I don't know, and the water comes in a glass jar with a handle like it's 2016 and nobody even knows what irony is anymore.

I like this place though, in a way.

Its surrounds, the general desertion of Newmarket Square that could put it somewhere in Brooklyn, or Romania, or what I might imagine Canada to be in moderate weather.

Not exactly Dublin.

I've lived in the city for 37 years and only ran across it recently, a place without road markings and an abandoned red bricked cube in its middle. A Blenders factory that PT Anderson might one day write a script around, and 70s signage over 60s offices.

Nobody walks up and down these streets, they just happen to the tables of the café of a sudden. Like they've all been hiding in the jacks.

The owner of the building is gladhanding investors and pointing at something from the window.

My guess is it's the derelict pub up at the corner that he'll soon swallow up, turn to profit, make it into another haberdashery and craft ale hothouse. From its window someone else will point, frown, and remember when the whole thing used to be fields.