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0012 Ego takes the stage

It’s a lovely old-fashioned tea-room
in one of those rare up-town hotels
that’s still a family concern; well-run,
staff been there for years; prices
reasonable. In fact the whole enterprise
is civilised. Even media types
for whom it stood in angry youth
as all they affected to despise, rather like it now.

It’s full though admirably leisurely
every afternoon – all friendly chatter,
silver-plate and fancy cakes. It stands
for exactly what it is, now rare – a tea-room.
Those who visit regularly wear the faintest sense
of self-congratulation. There was one
at every major London corner not so long ago.

Yesterday, suddenly, an intrusion:
onto the dais where a pianist plays
from four to five of a weekend afternoon,
a studenty-dressed chap launched himself
with a rant, which seemed to take in
everything from coffee and class to human rights.

Conversation dwindled; out-of-towners
up for supper and a show
judged it perhaps as experimental afternoon theatre
put on by an ill-advised management;
(the tea-dances there, long gone) :
some of the younger media types
barracked him; the rest of us
listened politely, before he was removed.

Conversation picked up slowly, then
became more stimulated; some of us
remembered the bombings only
just up the road. On the more senior tables,
his performance was compared unfavourably
with what we used to hear in ’68. More
hot water was called for; it seemed to have
made us thirstier.

It was, altogether
a very English occasion. A pity John Betjeman
or Alan Bennett couldn’t have been there.
When we left, the cloakroom attendants
looked friendlier, as if the tips were a little
larger today. And departing visitors
smiled at one another. We had shared
an occasion in central London,
and lived to tell the tale at home.

poem by Michael Shepherd
Added by Poetry Lover
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