And trying my hardest to not blame it entirely on the male gender.

A listless day scheduled for relaxation and acceptance of a slower pace of life. A morning surf, the first in many months with an impassioned group of groms. Naturally to be followed by a coffee. On this day in particular, the coffee was to be had in a place with the right “vibe” shall we say. I want hipster with a view.

I found myself driving around for near an hour, taking the coast road from Scarborough to Fremantle, before ending up at the place I knew I was going to from the beginning. A café on the corner in South Fremantle. Striking blue walls that were heavily, artistically graffitied. Vines creeping up its painted brick walls, a bike shop as a neighbour. 

From here I can see the both the ocean and the adjacent dog park. I can watch the cyclists ride by and speculate about various pedestrians and their Thursday agenda.

I order my coffee, a hot (extra hot, I repeat), soy, mocha and some avocado on toast. You can take the girl out of Melbourne etc. In my head I justify the purchase. Avocadoes are currently four bucks a pop, and deliciously fresh baked sourdough would probably be costing me close to a dollar each slice. The extra six bucks I paid to have someone make it for me I could completely accept, on this listless morning.

I’m given a number, number eleven. Written in white chalk paint on a glass bottle. A vine from a devil’s ivy and its water takes up the space inside the bottle.

I turn. A young man is behind me. He wears a red collared shirt, and brown slacks with cuffs rolled up. No shoes. His blond red hair is slicked back. He has a moustache. He would not be a young Australian male if he did not have a moustache.

I walk past him with my number in hand, and place it on the perfect table. It is a bar table, with two stools, outward facing. There is a newspaper on the table. Perfect I think to myself.

I need to pee. I return to the counter. The man in the red shirt is taking only seconds too long to make up his mind, enough to be minutely irritating I think. Shame, he’s probably enjoying his listless morning just as I am. Finally he pays, and stands aside so I can ask where the toilet is. Around the back of the bike shop, you have to walk through the gate, I am told. You’ll have to go around the back, she repeats.

I make my way around the back of the bike shop. I walk through the gate, as I was told. I hear the toilet door close ahead of me. Luckily there is a seat. I perch. One minute goes by, then another. A few more minutes go by before I hear the flush and the unmistakable sound of air freshener.

The door opens, and a man scurries past me, no eye contact, of course.

I breathe my last breath of fresh air and brace myself. “Men.” I cant help but think. As I sit on the pre-warmed seat, I try to change tack in my thought process. I decide I’m happy he got to enjoy his morning shit while I waited.

I finish within the minute, wash and dry my hands, and mentally prepare myself for my coffee and avocado on toast with a side of anthropologic observation. I make my way to table. Only to find the man in the red shirt sitting at my table. Reading my paper. Enjoying his coffee. He looks suave, seated there with his crossed, brown-slacked, legs.

Slightly frazzled, I find myself a seat inside. Another counter top bench, outwardly facing. I have a perfect view of the man in the red shirt, completely oblivious that he is sitting at my table, reading my paper, enjoying my serenity. How dare he.

To quell this morning’s frustration, I start writing this post. Now I am sat here observing the ins and outs of this café’s movements. The man in the red shirt is joined by two of his friends. He leaves the table. After hijacking my table, he does not even have the courtesy to stay and finish his meal at that table. They make their way to a table on the curb. His one friend has a messy man bun, the other wears a white baseball cap to shade his head from the sun as his slowly thinning hair no-longer does the job.

I can’t go back to my table. It would be too obvious. So I stay inside and accept its mediocrity. More men come and go utilising my table, reading my paper. The majority of them are wearing skin tight lycra, unashamedly bulging. It is after all the bike shop’s neighbour, I remind myself.

Outside, I see pairs of women. Two older women in colourful clothes a cackling away, smiling and affectionate. Another pair is seated in front of my window. I look at their laptop, sticky beak to see what their conversation must be about. On the screen, I see a heading “Strengths”, and bulleted below I see the words compassion, leadership, conflict resolution, self-awareness. They have an air of contentedness about them, a softness. A business meeting I’m sure. I gaze further. I see this beautiful young girl, pencil sketching in charcoal, headphones in.

I take a sip of my coffee and a bite of my toast. I overhear the young man behind the counter talk of “titties”. Involuntarily I roll my eyes. I watch as he squirts barbecue sauce on his sausage roll and shoves it in his mouth.

“Men”. I can’t help but think.