I sat down in the local library in my usual spot. The library in which I speak of is unknown to me now as a library, but more a social convention hall. The first blow that came to great pain was the addition of a café, ironically not Starbucks, embedded between two pillars where the workings of philosophy and medical journals laid: now subdued to regain life on the lesser third floor.

The second iron rod came around when Wi-Fi was added. People started flying into the halls escaping rain, as a meeting point for friends, or for just one more coffee in the afternoon.

It became no more a library as a theatre that only sells food. The silent aroma of reading, learning, digesting information, became coffee machines, unintelligible chatter of the highest degree that if Hemmingway were to hear, he would most certainly pass.

I began to wonder to myself one day sitting in the halls whether, if he was real or not, would Jesus shut this place down such as he did with the money-lenders in The Temple.

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Granted, the monastic life became one of accustom to me: Grabbing my brown overcoat off the brass armed hook, gaining purchase to my bike, getting half a way down city the streets before rapidly turning back and fumbling around my apartment like a fly on a window for my satchel. Still waking up, walking slowly into the lobby of the still empty halls, collecting a latte, one sugar, from the counter of the loving hate of my life which was the café with the brief idle chat with the young woman behind.

“Terrible weather we’re having.” She said over her shoulder, not turning away from the vociferous concerto of the machine.

“No, I don’t think so.” I reply with a glance at her and as she turned with my coffee in hand, and I raised my arms to display a water-torn Macintosh and a droplet of water creeping down my nose before taking a plunge onto the polished, wooden panel flooring. I gave her a sarcastic smile and glare before collecting my beverage and walking towards the stairs.

I made my way up the steps, or the lift if I’m especially lazy, to the third floor on where they keep the main section of classic literature and intellectual literature. The library is circular with a gaping hole in the middle with a glass dome at the top. I make my way over to a veranda with a small wooden table and chair copied in soldiery distribution and order around the banister surrounding the hole.

This library, though by natural sound seems lovely, had been overrun with an epidemic of pseudo intellects. People from all over thinking that, just because they say in a library and had a closed book in front of them, they were Alan fucking Bennett.

Many books were replaced with phones. People walking between shelves taking pictures, Caption: Studying. And rambunctious conversations of the latest trend, show or music. Never really studying.

It is with that final straw that I bought with great fury and wanted speed my final coffee there.

During the cycle home, I decided to stop in at the local café for some lunch. I plucked my notebook from my bag accompanied by a pen and a pencil. I started by sketching the view in front of me in the back of the book: a tall, slender woman behind the counter serving an old man treating his wheelchair-bound wife to a cup of tea, counting his pennies infinitesimally slowly. A group of men all in business attire occupied a table in the corner near a umbrella stand, puddled in creeping water.

I decided it then best to carry on the work for my latest novel. I flipped to the front and began writing. Looking around whilst in a brain shutdown, I spied upon an old Smith-Corona portable typewriter. The café, being privately owned, sells trinkets and objects such as paintings from starting artists, antiques and postcards. Of all my years entering this abode, I had never once seen such a majesty of beauty. No dents, all keys working, and a new ink reel spooled into location. £40.

I approached the counter with a shy scuttle, the waitress approached the other side. She lifted out a notebook from her apron pocket and said, “What would you like today? The bacon baps are fresh off now.”

“I’ll definitely take one of those, but I was more after the gem you have behind the counter, the Smith-Corona.”

“Thanking you. I’ve been wanting that gone for years now, its been sitting in the living room for ages. Do you want a bag with that?” Her eyes seemed to glimmer as she said this and her body perk upright like a soldier against a general.

I paid the £40, she gave it me with its original case. I walked the bike home as riding with this was too risky. I protected it with every instinct, like a mother with an new-born child.

Arriving home, I placed the metal contraption on my desk. I am not one for electronics, I only have one outlet in my room and that is for my laptop, which is rarely used, and my phone; same result. I prefer to write everything by hand and then copy it up to my computer once done, and there I can do my editing.

This was the perfect addition to the room.

From then on out I did all of my writing and school work, and eventually publishing work, on this typewriter. Now having a tool upon my disposal in the grasp of my hands, always at my desk, I could work day and night on my work and never have to go to the library, unless I needed to borrow a book or reference.

The next time I went into the library was nearly half a year later. The woman behind the café counter had grown longer hair and re-styled it into a bun at the back with two dangling twirling streaks hanging down against each cheek.

“Long time no see.” She stated when I walked though the doors. “ Do you want your usual?”

“Uh… Yes please.” I replied in confusion. I paid, got my books, and left. After returning the books I have not been back since.

The small blessings we take for granted.