NUC: Blossoming Together, Deptford

The award for cutest name goes too Blossoming Together. They've only been open a handful of months, so I am told, and they're still getting going. But this lack of refinement makes the whole thing better, possesing a reality that most places don't have. They hail from Italy, and slot comfortably into this quiet pedestrianised road opposite Deptford High Street.

When I walked past and took a look in it felt like I was peering into someone's front room. A woman appeared, somewhat expectantly, somewhat suspiciously, with a cautious smile on her face. I went in and asked for a coffee. She seemed slightly thrown, as if I had asked for something unusual, like a rabbit or something. But, quickly she seemed to accept that this was indeed a café and coffees were a fairly ordinary request. First, she fumbles around finding me an suitable place to sit. It's not busy, so this shouldn't be too challenging. But, also, there's only a few tables. There's one woman reading at one table, and a young girl with toys at another. I join the woman, she with Kindle, me with paperback. The three of us briefly discuss the merits of each device and the prospects for the rainforest.

There's also a space downstairs. From the amount of noise I deduce that downstairs is bigger than up here. Apparently it's a sewing and colouring and braiding workshop, and it sounds like it's going well. This community-oriented project seems to be a principle theme for the café, and I think that's good. Although, I might add, I'm fairly indifferent to sewing.

There's no 'bar' as such in here. A sort of small table/cupboard loosely demarcates the bit of the room where coffees are made and cakes are sliced. The sides and walls are lined with ingredients. It's like when you go to someone's house and you see how much better their kitchen is than yours. But this is a comfortable kitchen to be in, easy on the eyes and bursting with culinary potential.

Our Italian hostess, after marveling at the brilliance of Deptford market for things such as prawns, soon runs out the door leaving her one available employee, only just recruited, to keep things in order. This was fine until the Kindle Woman wanted to pay for her drink. The till loomed like an unfathomable corrupted robot, teasing her with booby-trapped buttons that do who-knows-what. I came to the rescue with my paltry knowledge of rudimentary cash registers and between the three of us we managed to get £2 into it. Soon after, the hostess returns showing off a bag of prawns. I pay for my drink, promise to return to tell her about my studies, and head home.

NUC: Petitou, Peckham Rye

Once, en route to the estate agents. I walked past this place and thought, 'hmmm . . . ' Yes, useful vocabulary was replaced by general sentiments funneled into even more general sounds. Another time, I walked past and thought, 'well, I wonder . . .' and the generality of my thoughts had taken a slight, almost imperceptible, shift towards substance.

Something was happening, that much I was certain of. Days passed, they became weeks, then we moved house. With myself in Deptford and Dave in Peckham, a suitable middle-ground became Petitou. I walked here (from Deptford, I kid you not), to find Dave, dressed in yellow, with his bike, which is also yellow. He sits in the front garden complimenting the green foliage.

Petitou's a charm. Set back from the high street, in a surprisingly quaint street. We sit in the garden, by an oak tree. Inside is good-looking. A menu on the wall has the usual list of drinks. Other original goods are on offer, teas and jams and such. I have an above average coffee, served to me by an above average woman. No music as far as I can tell, but a suburban soundtrack of bikes, cars and wind. Hold on, we're upgrading to the pub . . .

NUC: Browns, Brockley

Some say that Browns do the best coffee in London. Dave and I set off at the crack of noon to check this out. It's busier in here than usual. We sit by the window, parallel to the elongated table central to the room where the majority sit. To serve us, the girl has to leave the café, walk down the road about six paces, and come back in the next door. This route avoids the small crowd of customers filling up the space. I feel a pang of guilt as I ask her for milk, sending her back out for another journey. Thankfully, she's very nice, and it's not raining.

I have an Americano; Dave an espresso. Not cheap, £2 for mine. But indeed, it's a good'un. I already sense that I'll be buzzing all day. Best in London? Thus far, on this trip, I concur. We're across from Brockley Station, and Browns has a monitor with the Live Departures. Nice touch, Browns, I'm liking that. Although I have no train to get today, one day, perhaps I'll find that damn useful. Once, I recall, I had a sandwich here which was quite fancy and quite nice.

Brains buzzing with coffee bean-induced enthusiasm, Dave and I get down to sorting out the world and all it's problems. Starting with the Torys . . .

NUC: Ray's Jazz Café

Foyles, the ole bookstore, and it's phantom limb, Ray's Jazz Café. I've been here numerous times. Haven't we all? Chattery, is what it is. Curiously chattery for a place half full with solitary people. And me, solitary amongst my own kind. It's a miniature cultural economy. John Coltrane parps away; people stare into laptops, luminous apples assuring brand credibility; unidentifiable sandwiches arrive beside me with a gent, a Financial Times and a 'do you mind if I . . . '

'Go ahead,' is always the answer. Yet it's never expressed without the misgivings which embed themselves into my tone of voice. Those misgivings, I might add, are not there. Do so please sit there, Sandwich-Wielding Financial Times Man, let us discuss the economy.

But today is not the day for discussions. The wilted economy is a cold dry plank of wood that I am not willing to get walloped by. Even Eddie Mair's soothing tone won't change this, come five o'clock. This day is concerned with matters which would be best described with metaphors about the heart.

I sit with a coffee - Americano, pretty decent, dash of milk, £1.80. One applies milk, sugar, cinnamon (no less) after the initial coffee handover has been completed. Is this to speed up the process? Or does Ray know of the notorious problem of giving somebody too much milk? It's awfully hard to get that milk back out once it's gone in. Either way, if you want milk, get it yourself.

Rustic is the furniture, barren but warm. Long benches have strangers dotted along them - like at a bus stop, only here they're waiting for caffeinated mental stimulation, not busses - an entirely different kind of transport. Foyles café people are like a big family who rarely talk to each other, but when they do, they wonder why they don't do it more often. Some spark arises and two people converse, just like that. It happened to me once and it was very nice. Until that moment, some kind of British stereotype gets embodied in everybody and they stay politely reclusive. But less so here, it must be said. That's one of the charms of this place.

The jazz covers the room with an atmospheric consistency which is hardly noticeable but absolutely necessary. My wooden stirrer sits to one side, in a tiny brown puddle. I sit with Jonathan Littell's The Kindly Ones and a pink poetry book, soon to be posted off to a person. This person occupies my mind today. I sit amongst those with an eye in a novel and a fork suspended in anticipation, carrying a precarious mouthful; and those having conversations of Waking Life proportions. I feign smiles at people struggling to get past my chair, and read the gruelling synopses of the books I bought.

NUC: Broca, Brockley

A huge blown up photo of the Broca staff hangs on the wall. What larks they have. My CV goes in... Could I be on that wall next season? (No, apparently). Well, there's a few too many kids anyway. But still, it's a tasty place; I like it here. I'm keen on the array of dissimilar furniture, all second hand, mostly quite hard, cushionless. There is a sofa or two, too, if you're so inclined. Pleasant tunes drift through on clouds of caffeine, jangly guitars made for places like this.

People come and go. The Brockley pram society arrive with their new wares, tested with new tiny humans. A room out the back caters for the kids, who spill over into the main bit where I am. Fortunately, I have the patience of a saint. A huge noticeboard serves the community. I saw a very reasonably priced room going for rent, which I forgot to pursue. Such is the nature of the noticeboard. There's a nicely ethical undertone here, ensuring everyone's place in heaven. Organic things coupled with not extortionate prices. If you take a leap over the train station you come across the Broca's sister, the Broca Food Market. Once upon a time I bought dutch waffles from that place. How things change...