Mrs Dalloway, or Ignorance is Bliss
I used to go to work early, and even then, I was not ready. So I would pop in Taylor's on St Giles and get an espresso. Then, I would go to my place – I wish I'd say my favourite place but it's a graveyard and I'm no Goth – under that fig tree, just outside the graveyard, against the small wall. I would enjoy my strong coffee with a cigarette, the taste of each other mingling nicely together and progressively waking me up. And almost every morning, by the dot of 8 am, Mrs Dalloway would appear. I did call her Mrs Dalloway because she would walk fast, as if she'd "get the flowers" herself, like in the begining of that novel by Virginia Woolf. And yes, immanquablement, invariablement, Mrs Dalloway would appear ; a long, tall woman with fair hair, vaguely looking like a prettier Virginia Woolf with a rucksack on her back, wearing a shirt but with sport shoes, à la New Yorkaise. And yes of course, I had to quote an English author, perhaps the most En