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 . . .
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