The adventures of a people watcher.

When last did you go people watching? Here follows my report of a recent field trip.

Ten empty tables. Delicate chattering from the minority of tables with company. The picture is different to the normal frenzied crowding, and it's about to change. Passers-through pick up an early lunch and before I see it seats have emptied. The clock laboriously ticks closer to lunch. More of the table-sitters change. I notice now at the table next to mine, a brand new copy of a book "The dirty work of democracy" - the pages unturned and the book unopen as the patron reads something else. Perhaps the owner is incognito working as a marketer in a publishing house. With that kind of catchy title isn't a University coffee shop the perfect place to leave a volume to market itself?

The clicking of a pair of hard-heeled shoes breaks the thought thread. Where was I ? Oh right - democracy. What a cosmopolitan mix of staff and students, black and white and shades between. I guess it's human nature to categorise. Is the white boy hanging out with the Indian kids dirty democracy or is it all irrelevant as long as we're talking to each other and accepting of each other? The pigeon pecks at the leftover croissant crumbs on the floor. The calmness of his gathering is in stark contrast to the animated discussion 2 tables away. The words unclear, the wild gestures expressing volumes from way across the room.

Yet another table empties. A warm greeting from a passer-through I know. The democrat prepares to leave and in on fluid movement is away. The movement stirring the air and in wafts the pungent odour of cigarette smoke from outside and the thought of returning to more demanding tasks surfaces and retreats. I've seen the old guy here before. He wipes down the table with a serviette and takes his seat with his Exclusive Books bag and a double espresso. His suit and tie are as regular customers as he is. His slight stoop and frail frame belie the experience and knowledge contained within his scarcely covered head. Out the bag comes today's newspaper and a homemade sandwich. An old man from the old school.

The fickle weather expresses itself inside by the range of clothing worn by the patrons. Those that arose late, sport summery fashions. Those that awake before this face of the earth turned towards the sun, carry jerseys and jackets and live with closed shoes and long pants. Maybe it's the those who watch the weather channel and those who watch the weather. More aromas drift through the passages, this time its bacon and more tables fill - it's almost tea-time (or noon as it's better known). A thirty-minute breather between hurrying and scurrying between lectures, lunch meetings and reality. Youthful exuberance filling the air with laughter and increasingly loud chatter.

The guy in the red shirt expect company, his constant twittering and glancing at all the passers-by tells me this. A noon meeting as he waves to his guest. In fact closer inspection reveals him to be the campus guest and his client the local. Selling insurance? All the signs concur.

We're down to 4 open tables - all wobbly and uneven and missing chairs that have been moved to support the growing gatherings at other round tables. One of the tables is being used by the signwriter changing the ad in the lightbox mounted on the wall. As the noise levels grows to an almost intolerable level, I decide this field trip is over for now. The learnings indicate that I'm still observing. Imagination and focus required to pick a particular story and run with it are still strolling behind me. It's time to go and I walk past the noon meeting, signwriter, old man and the corner table now stands empty. For a short while.