NUC: Café Trinity, Turnham Green

Today I ventured west, further west than I thought possible. It was a veritable odyssey over to a building near Acton used for storage spaces but refashioned into a band room for a certain drummer of mine, Jane. We are trying to rework a song for her course. Candidates thus far include A Design for Life by the Manic Street Preachers and Help by the Beatles, also Last Flowers to the Hospital by Radiohead and The Call by the Backstreet boys, just to add a touch of class to the line-up. We made some progress before decamping to this café for a coffee wind-down.

It somehow reminds me of the cafés of Southampton, situated here in a place where the oppressive assault of the city hasn't quite eroded the quaint little-Englandness of the mythical yesteryears. The eponymous green stretches out to the left, a church of sorts to the right, a roundabout and a red phone box in the middle. Inside too, it's Southampton - it's 4:30 PM and empty, with bored staff talking amongst themselves, and little wooden round chairs screaming for someone to sit on them. We heed this call. The one other customer in here turns out to be working here. We order a cappuccino and a tea; the cappuccino is very fluffy.

There are a few tasteful paintings on the wall. The café is dark and green and warming. Despite the sun, the day is cold, but the deep colours take the edge off. The staff talk in a language I can't understand and I think one of them is nicer than the other. Jane and I talk about the art of drumming. I tell her that most of my drumming practice was done on the dashboard of a minivan in Australia, and that my favourite drummer is Abe Cunningham of the Deftones. For her, a Taiwanese band that I would not know inspired her to embark on a life of drums, and she's never looked back.

This café is not overwhelming. Maybe because we're the only ones here? It's safe though. Or maybe that's the problem - too content with being a merely safe café to be in, and little more. Upstairs it gets more loungey. Out the front dark wooden tables face outwards towards the road and the confusion - a new bus every twenty seconds, a mother and pram, a jogger and dog walker. Yes, some of London's suburban traits have found there way here after all.

NUC: The Deptford Project, Deptford

Saturday rained, Sunday did not. Saturday's café notes from Deptford is at Canary Magazine, which is down the digital street on a South East London server. Canary is good because 1. it's not oversaturated with content; 2. it's set out clearly; 3. it's got intelligent, creative articles which aren't dumbed down or formulaic and boring, and are instead embellished with such delights as Freud, existentialism and class war; 4. it's got stuff about stuff that I might be interested in - art and music and film and other random thoughts, little twists on everyday life; 5. it seems to have a voice - a Canary voice, if you will - that has a particular mood and direction (lose this at your peril...); 6. it's hoping to go to print which is way retro (physical things are cool); 7. it's got me in it, bestowing to me the semblance of legitimacy.

http://canarymagazine.co.uk/dir/portfolio/notes-from-a-cafe-the-deptford-project/

NUC: Wild and Wood, Holborn

On the day Saint Paul's became under siege by marauding disgruntled taxpayers (99% of the country, so I hear), Dave and I stopped here, at Wild and Wood, for a coffee, before heading into the battlefield and making unruly remarks about bankers, politics and the ambiguous City of London Corporation. We all know a little more about this secretive institution now, right? No, not really. "A coffee before the protest?" I advanced. — "Yes," replied Dave, "I know a place up here." — "Ah, but there's a place up here that I'd like to check out, looks pretty good." — "Trust me, the one I'm thinking of is really nice." — "Where is it?" — "Somewhere round here, not quite sure..."

Neither of us could find the cafés we were thinking of, which were both, incidentally, Wild and Wood. Until, voilà, here it was. The micro-network of roads round there still throws me. Our coffee was swell and gave us a much needed fuel injection for the chilly day of polemics which awaited us.

Today I am back here with Chris. We nestle in in what could be described as an alcove. The seats are carved into the walls, and the tables protrude from them. Pictures of old movie stars dot the wall, and a candle sits between us, giving Chris' beard an enigmatic shine. The unusual layout is a novelty in itself, and invites you to clumsily share the space with other coffee comrades. As the name of the place would suggest, its prettty woody and pretty goddam wild.

It's another one of those places which opts out of the conventional 'bar' system, instead simply plopping a cash register on the side and relying on shelves and worktops which spill into the room. The woman with the coffee (European but I didn't catch enough to guess where) is to-the-point but friendly. The small 'polite' reminders that those who sit here must purchase something, not water, sums up her character, at least in my head. Three suited men squeeze around a tiny table, sipping coffee delicately and talking about 'fiscal years' and 'strategic incentive strategies (SIS)'. We enjoy our coffee, it's good and is complimented nicely by a fine sugar. Buzzing slightly, we wonder whether we will ever set foot in an office; we expect not.

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.